All Was Golden in the Sky
by dandelionsandroses
Summary: When Katniss was caught stealing a pair of shoes for her sister from Mellark's Department Store in 1901, she never expected that instead of being arrested, the owner, Peeta, would take her in. But now she's living under his roof, being pampered with beautiful clothes and wondrous food. And perhaps she has a shot at something more. Historical AU.
1. Leather

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Hunger Games universe. All characters, names, and places belong to their respective owners.**

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The stove is broken again. Third time this week, not that I'd expect any less at this point. The little home I had made for my family is really nothing more than a side room in a tenement building. That's what the Seam, a measly neighborhood for factory workers, seated along the ridge of Manhattan, is mainly full of. There is the occasional rickety brownstone that holds a shift manager, but for the most part it's just workers crammed together like sardines.

The Seam is usually crawling with factory workers heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Men and women with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken faces. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses are closed. Christmas is the one of the few rare holidays we get, most spend every second with their relations.

There are no presents under the tree. No peppermint sticks or an orange, just once, like there had been when my father was alive. But Prim wouldn't be disappointed, not this year at least. She had learned not to expect much.

It had been just the two of us for the past couple of years. Well, us and the ball of fur that is lying beside her on the bed, guarding her, the world's ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. He hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he's a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I get the rare piece of meat, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

It's well into the morning by the time Prim wakes. There was once a time when we would both leap to awake on Christmas morning, greedily anxious for the treats our father had brought us. But now a morning full of sleep is more than enough to sate us.

It has been just the two of us for a while. My father had passed before my twelfth birthday, a work accident. Our Mama didn't do much else after he passed, it got better, eventually, but pneumonia took her soon enough.

I managed to keep Prim in school, she wants to be a teacher day. Sweet, innocent Prim. She has no business in the factories, actually has a shot at more than this. The least I can do was keep her in class, even if most children were in the shops by her age.

Breakfast is dull, nothing more than the usual mash. I tried to save for a bit of sugar and cinnamon, like I usually do around this time, but Prim needed a new school smock.

We both dress quickly. Prim in her faded black dress, me in the shortened blue thing that was once my mama's. It's my best dress, the one I used to reserve for church and birthdays, but since I'd pawned my mother dress I'd started wearing it to the factory and since, there was no salvaging it from the dark fumes and dust that had accumulated.

"Katniss," Prim says, her voice wavering as she slips into her boots, "I can stick my toe through it this time."

I sigh. It will be a while before I can afford new boots, or even a patch. Wordlessly, I pull some worn newspaper from the stack on the shelf, carefully stuffing her shoes. I'd give her my own if she'd fit them.

Money has been tight these past few months. The landlord had raised the rents, the factory had been cutting down on my hours. I've pawned practically everything of value at this point.

"You don't have to feel guilty, Katniss," she places her hand on mine, so patient, so knowing, "many have it worse. I'm thankful."

When did my little sister become so grown up?

But I can't help it. I want to give her something, so I offer the only thing I can, "I know, Prim. Perhaps we could stop by Mellark's Department Store?"

"Really," she lights up, "Maybe we could go see the Christmas display! Becca's mother brought her the other day, she said they have twenty velvet dresses and bustles so wide you could barely stand in them."

She means the ones they display in the windows. Beautiful dresses on mannequins, decorated with velvet polar bears or crystal 'snow' falling from above. A gimmick to bring people inside. They're even grander on Christmas and New Year's Day. When we're in the square, Prim always drags me over to admire them, although we'd never be able to afford one. There's little enough beauty in our life, though, so I can hardly deny her this.

"Of course, Prim," I say, with a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.

Her eyes widen in wonder and she swings around to pull me in a hug, "Oh, Katniss! Thank you!" she says with sheer delight. And for a moment I feel a pang of guilt, what kind of sister was I if she got so excited over just being able to look at pretty things?

It takes us a while to get to Fifth Avenue. More than usual, really. In these parts of the city, where days off aren't such rare occasions, where fathers bring their kids to shop for trinkets and candies, the streets are littered with shiny faces and best dresses.

It's beautiful, I have to admit it. The Avenue is always bustling with excitement, it's almost a treat to be surrounded by such pretty things. But this isn't my part of town. I know better. But Prim always wants to stop and look at the department store windows.

Mellark's is a luxury shop along Fifth Avenue. Although, shop is certainly not the right word for it. Department Stores they call them these days, the type of place that has a whole floor just for ladies' hats. Bridget, the girl across from us in the Seam, claims that they've had them back in London for ten years.

The department store is flocked. It's ten floors of perfectly manicured light brick, even the name, Mellark's seems to beam across the floor in those bright, uniform gold letters. We stand out just a little, but there are enough people here today that none of the store clerks shoo us away.

This year, instead of polar bears or crystal snow, the display is a little more natural. There's a girl, a beautifully painted mannequin with a simple braid and a gorgeous dark green gown that flows at least ten feet. She's standing in what must be a fairytale wonderland. There's a beautiful 'forest' of silk scarves and paste jewels, an enchanted cottage detailed with gold. It's one of the more tasteful displays, for sure, and I can't help but wonder if he designed it.

Prim spends a great time admiring the displays, an antagonizing time, really. We have to circle the whole building-twice-before she's satisfied.

The inside of Mellark's is just as fascinating to Prim at the displays. Racks of bright pre-made dresses, rows upon rows of ribbons, she even spends time admiring the ties. There's something about the endlessness of it that's comforting, if not the slightest bit revolting. My friend from the factory, Gale, says that's it's despicable. For there to be so much splendor when so many of us are starving. But that doesn't make it any less enchanting. In Ladies' Wear there is a whole room, the size of our entire building, just for sleeve laces. And with all the drudgery in my life, I can't help but marvel just the slightest bit.

And that's when I see them.

They're displayed callously in the open. Black leather boots, exactly Prim's size. Nothing fancy, but nothing I could ever afford. They're just in my reach, tempting me. I can't help but wonder if I just reached out—slipped them in my bag. Nobody would even notice, and it wouldn't be like stealing from the local shoemaker. It would barely make a dent in the department store's profits. With the flurry of people bustling through the store? Surely, I wouldn't be caught.

So I reach out and touch them, just touch them. I wait for a moment, just to see if a clerk will spot me, scream for the seam girl to get away from her wares. But nobody does.

I glance over to my left. Prim's busily occupied on the other side of the room, admiring the plait ribbons they have for sale. She'd never even half to know. I'd tell her I found an old ring of our mother's, or that I picked up a new shift at the factory. Prim wouldn't suspect otherwise. And oh, to see the look on my sister's face! How proud would she be? To wear a brand new pair of bright patent leather shoes?

I don't even think about it when I do it. I just reach out and grab them, shoving a shoe into each of my pockets.

Nobody even gives me a second glance.

And oh, there is nothing that can quite describe the relief I feel wash over me as I go over to Prim, nobody the wiser to the stolen merchandise hiding in my skirts. It's wrong, I know it. But what was I going to do?

Ideally I would like to leave as soon as possible, the contraband is practically burning through my pockets. And I'm anxious, too, but what would I tell Prim? So I let her wander around a bit, indulge in her fantasies, let her tell me what she's going to buy, 'when she's a teacher'.

And then I hear it.

"It's her! The seam brat right there! Thief, thief!" the frantic urges of a store clerk bellow through the room, and at first, I try to make an exit, pulling on Prim's sleeve, trying to get out of there as soon as possible.

But somebody, the pudgy bald security guard, stops me, "Hey there, missy, where do you think you're going?" he snarls.

"I didn't do anything!" I cry, pulling my hands away from him.

He snarls, "Empty your pockets, girl." Everybody's staring.

"I didn't do anything wrong," I protest, trying once again to get him off me.

I can't breathe. Can't even look at Prim.

And I must wait too long, because he grabs at my pockets, a cruel smile on his face as he pulls out two new patent leather boots with Mellark's stamped on the soles, "Just like I thought." He tries to pull my hands back, and my 'fight or flight' reflexes kick in, causing me to shove him slightly.

That lands me face down on the ground, his sweaty elbows digging into my back. And I can hear

"Wait, wait! Dear god, don't hurt the girl," a voice stands out among the murmurs of the crowd, an authoritative infection evident in the voice. And suddenly, there's a hand, pulling me up and sitting me against the smooth glass of the counter.

And when I look up, I startle slightly, never able to meet his compassionate glance. Because I know that blonde hair, I know those bright blue eyes.

Peeta Mellark.

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**Author's Note: So there it is, guys! A brand new story from your's truly. This is something I've been dabbling with for a while. Hopefully the latter chapters will be longer but I didn't want to give anything away. Please let me know what you think. This is un-betaed, so if you see any mistakes, please let me know.**

**As always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety. You can also follow my everlark fanfiction gif blog at everlarkfanfictionclub.**


	2. Caramel

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the works in the Hunger Games trilogy. All characters, places, and names belong to their respective owners. The first scene was adapted from the Hunger Games - Chapter Two, so no claim on that. I would like to thank the lovely Court, for her speedy and thorough editing of this chapter. Also, shout-out to bottledmichelle, who will be helping with some of the historical details. Make sure to follow her on tumblr.**

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Why him? I think, my face burning with pure shame. Then I try to convince myself it doesn't matter. Peeta Mellark and I are not friends. Not even neighbors; far from it, actually. We don't speak. Our only interaction of value happened years ago—and then there was that once, last fall—but he's probably forgotten it all. But I haven't and I know I never will.

* * *

It was during the worst time. My father had been killed in the accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anyone could remember. The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. Where are you? I would cry out in my mind. Where have you gone? Of course, there was never any answer.

The factory had given us a small amount of money as compensation for his death, enough to cover one month of grieving, after which time my mother would be expected to get a job. Only she didn't. She didn't do anything but sit propped up in a chair, or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Once in a while she'd stir and get up as if moved by some urgent purpose, only to then collapse back into stillness. No amount of pleading from Prim or me seemed to affect her.

I was terrified. I suppose now, looking back that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was that I had lost not only a father, but a mother as well. At eleven years old, with Prim just seven, I took over as head of the family. There was no choice. I bought our food at the market and cooked it as best I could, and tried to keep Prim and myself looking presentable. Because if it had become known that my mother could no longer care for us, the city would have taken us away from her and placed us in the community home, or orphanage, as the others liked to call it. I'd grown up seeing those home kids at school — the sadness, the marks of angry hands on their faces, the hopelessness that curled their shoulders forward. Some of them were even sent away to the farms, siblings split apart. I could never let that happen to Prim.

Sweet, tiny Prim who cried when I cried before she even knew the reason, who brushed and plaited my mother's hair before we left for school, who still polished my father's shaving mirror each night because he'd hated the layer of grit that settled on everything in the Seam. The community home would crush her like a bug. So I kept our predicament a secret.

But the money ran out and we were slowly starving to death. There was no other way to put it.

Starvation's not an uncommon fate in the tenement buildings. That and infection seemed to kill half of us. Who hasn't seen the victims? Older people who can't work. Children from a family with too many to feed. Those injured in the sweatshops, straggling through the streets. And one day, you come upon them sitting motionless against a wall or lying in the hear the wails from a house, and the diggers are called in to retrieve the body. Starvation is never the official cause of death. New York's been painted as the land of promise, the epitome of the American dream. Nobody needs the truth on the records.

On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Mellark, the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in town trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes of Prim's in the public market, but there were no takers. Although I had been to the Hob, a dingy illegal market that catered to the Italians, on several occasions with my father, I was too frightened to venture into that rough, gritty place alone. The rain had soaked through my father's hunting jacket, leaving me chilled to the bone. For three days, we'd had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves I'd found in the back of a cupboard. By the time the market closed, I was shaking so hard that I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a mud puddle. I didn't pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable to regain my footings. Besides, no one had wanted those clothes.

I couldn't go home. Because at home was my mother, with her dead eyes and my little sister, with her hollow cheeks and cracked lips. I couldn't walk into that room with the dingy wallpaper and bare cupboards.

I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople, closer to the Park. I remember the outlines of garden beds not yet planted for the spring.

It had crossed my mind that there might be something in the trash bins, and those were fair game. Perhaps a bone at the butcher's, or rotted vegetables at the grocer's, something no one but my family was desperate enough to eat. Unfortunately, the bins had just been emptied.

But then I passed the Mellarks' home. It was a lush brownstone; tall, even from the back. The alley on this side was swept clean, immaculate, really. And I could smell it—fresh bread baking in the kitchen's ovens. The ovens were in the back, and I could almost feel the heat. I stood mesmerized by the warmth and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers down my back, forcing me back to life.

And that's when I noticed him. That same blonde hair, those blue eyes. He was a few years older, and there was an angry red mark on his face — I wondered if somebody had hit him. I had seen similar marks on the kid in the community home. Rough, angry purple marks along their faces. He was finely dressed, for sure. Nice grey suit, burgundy scarf with an embroidered dandelion along the silk. Odd choice of flower for such a fine thing. I imagined his sweetheart had done it.

He was standing there on the back stoop, just looking at me. "Wait—" he said, "stay here."

My first instinct was to run, to flee, but I didn't have the strength in me.

When he finally came out, seemingly hours later, two slightly burned loaves were under his arm, wrapped in that same dandelion-embroidered scarf, "They already set the table with the fresh ones, I'm sorry. Here," he said, attempting to approach me.

I moved back, startled.

He sighed slightly. Backing up, one hand in the air, as if to show me he meant no harm, he tossed me the loaves.

I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfect really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me to have them? He must have. Because there they were at my feet. Before anyone could witness what had happened, I shoved the loaves up under my shirt, wrapped the hunting jacket tightly about me, and walked swiftly away. The heat of the bread burned into my skin, but I clutched the loaves tighter, clinging to life.

I could hear the voices. A woman, his mother perhaps, shrieked at him to 'get away from that garbage, the guests are inquiring your whereabouts. I had Jessa look for you, God knows she's worthless, now get back inside and put on a smile.' And there was a crack, like the slap of a hand. I glanced back for a moment and looked at the boy. I wondered for a moment if she had been the one to hit him, and why he didn't stand up to her. He was surely bigger? But I was scared she'd chase me, make me return the bread. So I just ran.

By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled somewhat, but the insides were still warm. When I dropped them on the table, Prim's hands reached to tear off a chunk, but I made her sit, forced my mother to join us at the table, and poured us all warm tea. I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the bread. We ate an entire loaf, slice by slice. It was good, hearty bread, filled with raisins and nuts.

I wondered why he would have done it. Starving Seam girls were a dime a dozen. He didn't even know me. Still, just throwing me the bread was an enormous kindness; it was salvation in the purest form.

We ate slices of bread for breakfast, and headed to school. It was as if spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy clouds. It was New York though. There were no bright blue skies, only grey, muddy ones.

I noticed him around after that. He would come to the Seam, baskets of fresh bread in hand, and distribute them to the locals. I wouldn't take any of the loaves, though. I'd already taken so much from him. Who was I to steal from another starving family?

And then there was that day last fall...

* * *

My thoughts are broken by the security guard's gruff voice. "This missy was stealing shoes. Tried to make an exit when we went after her, shoved me, too." He glances to the crowd.

"I'll make a call to the Police Department," he adds.

"I'm no thief." My voice is raspy as I cry in protest, moving my knees to my chest in defense. My loose hair falls over my face, shielding me from the embarrassment.

"No, no. Don't do that," Peeta says dismissively. "I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding. Isn't that right, Katniss?"

He says my name with a question, like he's not quite sure of himself. But still, he knows my name? Surely he'd forgotten? While he had played such a significant role in my life, I was nothing more than a blimp in his.

I'm not sure why he's protecting me. Saving me, really. For the second time. But I nod when the security guard looks at me with his cold, questioning stare.

"A misunderstanding, sir? She had the shoes tucked in her pockets. She ran when we put the spot on her."

I cringe, unable to meet Peeta's eyes. He had been so generous to me, to everybody. And here I was, stealing from him? I can hear Prim whimper in the background, scared. I wonder what she thinks of me now, to know her own sister is a thief.

Peeta gives a smile to the guard. "Oh, she's just a bit skittish, I suppose." He looks at the man's name tag. "Albert, why don't you let me handle this one?"

Albert gives a smile, almost like he's proud of being called by name.

Peeta Mellark looks up at me, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. "Are you alright? I hope my men didn't hurt you."

I cross my forehead in confusion. His men hurting me? That's what he's inquiring about, even with my theft so blatantly obvious?

I shake my head. "I'm fine."

He holds my arm, helping me up. The crowd has mostly dispersed now; there are only a few onlookers. "James!" Peeta yells, motioning for one of his workers, "Why don't you take this girl up to my office," he glances down at Prim, " and the sister too. Leave the younger one with Miss Rachel."

Internally, I panic. Surely this is just a more diplomatic way to arrest me. Didn't want to make a scene, I suppose. But James', a stocky man who looks to be in his forties, hand is firmly pressed against mine and there's nowhere to go.

The man wordlessly leads the two of us up six flights of what must be the back stairs. I'm to ashamed to find it in myself to look at Prim to make sure she's okay.

When we're finally on the seventh floor, James takes me into what must be Peeta's office. It is a very fine room, tasteful too. Mahogany walls, Tiffany lamps, like the ones in the factory's main office, bits and pieces of velvet draped here and there. There's a reception area too, with a secretary in a sleek black gown.

James seats Prim at the pretty little parlor chair across from the secretary. "Miss Rachel." James' voice is kind and warm, almost like my father's. "Why don't you keep the girl here occupied. I think there's a box of sweets in the back."

"Why don't you come in here for a second?" he says, motioning me to open the stained glass door along the opposite wall. The one that surely leads to the room where I will wait for the police.

I look back at Prim, not wanting to separate from her. Oh, what had I done? There would be nobody to care for her when I am locked up. And after I was released, there would be no chance of a decent job.

But I don't have a choice, and the last thing I want to do is make a scene in front of my sister, so I comply, closing the door behind me.

* * *

The wait seems longer than it probably is. Coupled with my anxiety and the utter boredom, it feels like hours before somebody comes to collect me.

But this time, it isn't a police officer, or even a worker. It's him. I can tell the moment he enters the room. I'm sitting in the chair closest to the door. It's an uncomfortable leather thing, a little too high for me, and I find myself swinging my legs against the back of the chair, thankful for the dull pain that hits my legs as I go back and forth.

"I apologize for the wait. I had to deal with some matters of concern," he says as he enters the room. His voice is not threatening, even now we're in private.

I look up at him for the first time, my eyes meeting his. "What will happen to my sister?" I croak.

He gives me a sad look. "That's a matter we can discuss in a moment."

"I didn't steal those things," I insist, hearing the insincerity in my own voice. I'm not even trying this time.

He stares at me for a minute, then sighs. "I don't need you to lie to me, Katniss. It's alright, I promise." He pulls the overbearing green desk chair out of its corner and moves it so that it is directly across from me.

"Why don't we talk for a moment, how about that?" he raises an eyebrow, sitting down.

"Talk about what?"

"Why don't we start with why you stole those shoes?" He opens one of the drawers from his desk and hands me a small, shiny object. It's a candy, a wrapped caramel from France.

I look at it hesitantly and wonder what the rich, golden candy would taste like on my tongue, before deciding to save it for Prim.

"I didn't do anything," I insist pathetically, my voice cracking this time.

He reaches across, placing his hand on mine in a reassuring, almost fatherly manner. I reproach a little. I'm not used to strangers touching me.

"I assure you, everything you say in this room is 'off the record'. I won't hold it against you. Just tell the truth and you won't get in trouble, alright?" His eyes are questioning, but still soft.

For some reason, whether it be stupidity or an innate trust, I tell him. "I didn't mean to steal them. It's just — they were so close. And Prim's shoes had just busted. She wants to be a teacher, you know? I couldn't send her to school with busted shoes."

He nods, as if he understands. "I'm sure you love your sister very much."

I nod. I do love Prim, more than anything. "Are you going to call the police?"

"No," he firmly says. And for a moment, relief washes over my body. "I'm not. It is Christmas, after all. I think we can make a deal, agreed?"

I flood with panic. "A deal?" I question, the hesitation evident in my voice.

"Yes, a deal." He nods at me. "I propose a deal."

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**Author's Note: Thank you for all the support! I'm glad everybody seems to be enjoying this fic, and I look forward to working on new material. Please let me know what you thought in the reviews!**

**As always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety and everlarkfanfictionclub.**


	3. Gold

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Hunger Games universe. All characters, places, and names belong to their respective owners. Thanks again to Court for being my lovely beta. If you want to see the outfits worn in this chapter, check out my tumblr starveinsafety under the tag 'all was golden in the sky'.**

* * *

"What do you mean?" I narrow my eyes at him.

"The sentence for petty theft is six months, right?" He glances downward.

I nod. Six months. How would Prim have survived?

"It's more of an invitation than anything else. You would certainly be free to go and come at your leisure. In exchange for your freedom—for the duration of your sentence, that is—I would request the two of you come live with me, stay in my city home. And at the end of those six months," he grins, "everything would be repaid."

"Stay?" I question the implications, pinching my eyebrows. Would I be working in his household? There would be no pay, of course, and I'd have to quit my job at the factory. Who knew when I would be able to get a new position? Times were tough and it was hard to get a stop on the floor, especially for a woman of my age—too old to take a child's position, too young to be given any responsibility.

"Yes," he says, "_stay_. Stay with me, in my home. You would be obliged to nothing, we can work out an arrangement, I suppose. You would be in need for nothing, and if you remain in my household, this entire misfortune could be forgotten."

* * *

I am silent as we walk through the office halls of the department store.

The streets facing the city must be swamped, because Peeta leads us through an exit along the Park. Prim's happy as can be, though she doesn't quite understand the situation. The corner of her mouth is sticky with chocolate, and she has a skip in her step as we cross into the side of the park. It is probably inappropriate, especially around Peeta, but I cannot find it in my heart to chastise her.

"Here," Peeta says as we come to the side of a closed carriage. The body is black, with large curtained windows on both sides. It is far nicer than the buggies that come into the Seam; even in this light you can see the quality—the sleek lines and navy blue detailing. Everything is polished too. The bright silver wheels seem to shine above the blackened, salted snow that covers New York.

One of Peeta's men opens the doors for us and helps Prim and me into the carriage, as if we were proper ladies.

"Step right up, miss." The man is wearing a coal black suit with a crisp, collared white shirt. A tan top hat in the latest style adorns his head, and brass buttons lining his jacket. This driver is better dressed than any man in the Seam, even the shift guard at the factory.

I'm a little wobbly once I take a step inside the carriage, quickly sitting myself and Prim on the side opposite to Peeta. The inside is just as fine as the outside. Puckered dark blue velvet lines the entirety of it. Prim's certainly impressed; I can see from the way her eyes light up as she notices the mahogany panelling. Neither of us have ever been in anything so nice. In fact, I'd only been in a carriage once before, and it was dingy cab—nothing like this. In the Seam, we had to walk everywhere we needed to go.

Immediately, I feel out of place. I eye Peeta sitting across from me, his fine suit blending perfectly with the environment. And there is the two of us in our worn, ratty clothes. Both of us stick out like sore thumbs. At least Prim still has that natural, childlike beauty. I lost that years ago. The reflection from the paned window shows only the tired sorrow of twelve-hour shifts. I don't belong here, I think.

As we pass West 57th Street, Prim speaks up.

"Katniss didn't _steal_ those things," she says, her timid voice breaking through the silence. She's naive. Of course it is obvious to anybody that I stole those things. But Prim has always had the highest opinion of me. I've been father and mother and sister for far too long.

Immediately, I turn away. This was not a conversation I wished to have.

"Of course not, dear," Peeta says, placing a reassuring hand on hers.

His reassurance seems to sate her, as if his word is golden. Because why else would Peeta tell her that unless it was the truth?

I make a mental note to thank him for saving my sister's opinion of me. Yet another _unexplainable kindness_ on my behalf. Or perhaps he was only saving himself from impolite conversation.

"I like your carriage," she says giddily, changing topics.

"Thank you," Peeta says, giving her a tight smile.

"It's very pretty," she babbles. "But why don't you drive your motor-car. You do have one, don't you? My teacher, Mr. Nichols, says all the rich men have them these days."

"Prim," I chide, turning red with embarrassment. It was an inappropriate question. "That's rude," I tell her. It was better she learns her place now rather than later.

"No, no," Peeta lights up, "It's fine. Yes, I do have a motor-car, I've gained a few of them over recent years. I keep them in the country though. Far too difficult to manage the city streets in a timely matter. Although perhaps one day, if you're ever to visit my country estate, I could give you a ride."

I frown at him. Who is he to give her such lofty ideas? Motor-car trips? It's cruel to fill her with promises he will never keep.

"If your sister allowed it, of course," he quickly adds.

"Oh, Katniss! Could I?" Prim leaps at the idea, wriggling in her seat.

Luckily, I'm spared the need for an answer as the driver pulls into the Avenue, quickly settling the horses as we reach our destination.

* * *

The house is as grand as one could possibly imagine. The building itself is legendary, though I've only seen it in passing. I remember when they built the place, the talk that spread amongst the Seam. 'Just another Avenue mansion for a robber baron,' Gale had said. They had sprung up over the past years. Ian Fletcher's place, which looked more like a castle than anything else. Astor's House, a few years back. And now the Mellark family had a place, too.

It's imposed itself on the surroundings. The first story is covered in light stone with matching towers that climb up the facade, bright red bricks peeking through. It fills the corner of the block, windows and windows to either of my sides.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Peeta says, pulling me from my thoughts. He stands beside me, looking up at the house, as if he too is amazed by the sheer extravagance. "I often find myself admiring the place, perhaps more so than my store."

The purchase itself was subsidized by investments and railroad money. The first residential home in the world to have an elevator, or so they said. It had been common gossip amongst the factory workers. With little to live for, the women in my shift slot had the tendency to chit-chat about whatever marvelous home or scandalous affair of the rich was passing around.

"Does it really have an elevator?" I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. I had never seen anything so grand in my life. "On the inside?"

He nods, "And there is a contraption of ducts, too. Really marvelous things. They pump cool air and heat into the house. Very modern, something I borrowed from an uncle of mine. But alas, it takes up a whole room in the lower building and is very finicky to run. I imagine that one day every home in America will have a system like this."

I laugh a little, imagining a future where heat and air just ran through homes like magic. It's probably another fad, like motor-cars, a novelty for the rich. There's no way that it will ever become affordable.

* * *

I feel as if I have stepped into another room when the three of us enter the foyer. It's cozier than one might expect, filled with sentimental paintings and silk flowers, but still majestic, decked in a flurry of marble and mahogany.

"Your coat, miss," one of the serving boy says. I eye him skeptically. Why on earth would he want my coat? If he took it, I'd never be able to leave, not in this weather, at least. Though maybe that is the point.

Noticing my nerves, Peeta places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "He's just going to put it in the coat closet," he points towards a door in the foyer, "you'll be free to take it at any time."

"Now, Peeta, why on earth are you home? Dinner will not be on the table for _hours_!" A woman bursts through the door, stopping abruptly as she notices us, "Oh my, what did you get yourself into?"

The woman is comically dressed. She dons an oversized, ruffled bustle big enough to clothe the entire Seam. Hell, the puff of her hair could keep half the city's children warm. For a moment, I wonder if she is Peeta's wife. Surely I would have heard of it in the papers, and she appears to be much older than him, but anything is possible. She can't be simple staff, not with the way she calls him Peeta, the way she so affectionately and openly addresses him, as if she has the right to chide him.

I grit my teeth, irritated at both the thought and the way she eyes me critically, her eyes forming little frowns as she politely composes her face. She's obviously distressed by our disheveled appearance.

"Effie," Peeta says, "these are my guests, Katniss and Primrose Everdeen. Why don't you have one of the girls draw the two of them baths, let them settle down in the Rose Rooms."

I frown a little at his use of the word guest. Prim and I are assuredly far from that.

"I am not a housekeeper," the woman, Miss Effie, protests, eyeing me up and down. "Peeta, may I speak to you in private?" She catches his wrist, hastily pulling him into the side parlor.

We're stranded there for a moment, Prim and I. Effie's scolding him, I can tell from the not so concealed voices and the puffed appearances they both sport after re-emerging from the parlor.

I can hear her as they exit; her high voice carries in the open room, "This is your problem, not mine. You deal with it."

"_Effie_," Peeta replies, "be courteous. Make our guests at home."

"Fine," Effie says, her voice drawn as she places a hand on Prim's back. "Why don't I take you upstairs, sweetheart?" She gives the tiniest smile at my sister, the first genuine look I have seen on the woman's face. "Primrose, was it?"

Prim nods, fascinated by the woman.

"Now, Katniss," Effie adds, not nearly as nice when she directs me, "follow me, and mind you, don't touch anything."

* * *

My head feels perfectly light as I dip my head into the perfumed, scented water that fills the porcelain tub. The woman that Effie passed me off to, a young, timid red-headed maid, an oddly familiar girl, had offered to cater to me in the bath, as if I were a child, but I had quickly declined. I wonder if that was a thing wealthy people did, if they were too incompetent or lazy to bathe themselves.

Nonetheless, I can't deny it is an enjoyable experience. The water is hot, straight from the tap. Back home the shared bath was always a bit musty, a little lukewarm, by the time I ever got in. I had never really experienced a truly fresh bath, much less piping hot water filled with creams and potions that the serving girl promised would make my skin feel soft.

Not that it matters to me. I'm happy enough to remove the grime that seeped into my body from years of life in the Seam.

I've noticed all the girls who work here have clean, fresh skin. Perhaps now that I am part of this arrangement, my skin will be kept clean too. It will be a nice change, for certain.

I think for a moment of my sister, if she too is enjoying one of these drawn baths. Effie had taken her down a hallway. Perhaps they have more than one of these rooms? It sounds awfully expensive, with all the wood paneling and running water. Though if anybody can afford two bathing chambers, it's Peeta.

_This_, I think,_ this I could get used to_.

* * *

I could stay here forever. But eventually the bath grows cool and I force myself from the comfort of the water's embrace. The maid left a pile of clothes on the sink.

There's a pink thing waiting for me. When I unfold it, I notice the cut, smooth with no visible bustle or skirtage. The top is all ruffles and lace that dances along the high-collared neckline, tying only at the waist in a pale pink ribbon. Prim would love this. It's a dressing gown; I've seen them advertised. The type of thing a woman of wealth wears, far from anything I should be in. But seeing as it is the only thing here, I have no choice but to put it on.

The dressing gown sticks a little against my wet skin, and I can't help but wonder where the girl took the dress I came in. Would I ever get it back? It was my best dress, even if it doesn't compare to this.

Crossing the little room, I peek outside of the door, spotting the maid that helped me before. She's sitting in the hallway with a pile of laundry. I imagine she did idle work while she waited for me.

"Miss," she says, setting aside her bin, "let me bring you." The red-haired girl from before she takes my hand into hers, wordlessly leading me into a room with blue toile wallpaper, rugged floors, and a wall of dressers. "Let me take this," she points to the pink dressing gown, "I'm here to get you ready, let me do my job."

I submit, feeling slightly unnerved by my nakedness as I slip out of the dressing gown and into the crisp white underthings that she sets aside for me. I even let her put me in a corset when she promises not to fit it too tight.

When she pulls the dress from the wardrobe, my eyes widen. I'm not the type of girl that is easily impressed by clothes, but even I have to admire the beauty of it. The main body is a bright Christmas red, with little buttons along the top. Over that, there is a cropped red velvet jacket that looks like the ones in the advertisements Prim likes to pore over. And then there is the patterned gold and red overskirt that settles over the dress—no oversized bustle, thank god.

"Are you sure this is for me?" I question the girl. The dress is clearly very expensive, whatever this arrangement is I highly doubt Peeta intended to deck me out in soft pink dressing gowns and rich red dresses, nice as he is.

The girl nods. "Master Mellark set it aside in _particular_ for you."

* * *

**Author's Note: The new chapter is up! Let me know what you think in the reviews, it's been over a year since I started publishing fanfiction, crazy, right?**

**Anyways, as always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety.**


	4. Tea

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Hunger Games series. All characters, places, and names go to their respective owners.**

* * *

Fire burns through my cheeks as I think of Peeta selecting the dress. It was all so confusing—his kindness._ And what would he get out of it anyways?_

"Would you wish to be alone?" the red-head asks me, turning me around so that I face the full length mirror. I can't help but notice that I look nicer than usual. My skin is clean and tinted the slightest bit pink from all of that scrubbing, my hair smooth and shiny. The dress compliments me too, with the help of the corset I look like a woman for once in my life.

I nod._ There is something I need to do._

* * *

I tiptoe down the hallway, making sure to avoid any of the servants. This house is like a labyrinth, an endless maze of corridors, connecting parlors, and staircases. One could easily get lost in this place. In fact, I am not entirely sure that I could find my way back at this point. The whole building is overwhelmingly larger, bigger, and far more complicated, than any tenement building.

But eventually I find the only room on the floor (aside from my own) that has light filtering through the cracks. I knock on the door, not wishing to disturb Peeta or find him in a state of address.

"Come in!" the voice says, unmistakably his. I turn the porcelain door knob, peeking inside. It's a room, not much smaller than the one I've been assigned. Peeta's sitting at a little table along the wall, a tea cart placed beside him.

"Oh, Katniss. What a pleasant surprise." Peeta rises at my presence, motioning for me to join him at the table. "Come, come. I assumed the two of you would need some rest; dinner will not be on the table for another hour, I'm afraid." He pushes a hot cup of tea in my direction.

"That's not why I'm here," I say plainly. "I need to speak with you."

Peeta gives me the slightest smile. "Cream?" he says, offering me some of the thick, ivory drink. I could drink it from the serving dish, I think. We never had the money for cream back home. Sometimes we bought milk when the men came around with the carts, but never cream. It had been years since I had tasted the smooth, buttery liquid. And when I take a sip of my tea, I can almost feel the weight of it on my tongue

"Now, what would you like to discuss with me?" he says,

I eye him. "I need you tell me exactly what this _arrangement _is about. Can't be good for your reputation to let a common thief traipse around your house, much less dine with you. The clothes—it is entirely too much on your part. I can't accept it. So tell me, what do you want from me?"

He gives the slightest of smiles, as if he is in on a secret I know nothing about. "I want nothing _from_ you, Katniss. Only your company."

The implication hits me. _Company. _He wanted my company—a nagging suspicion confirmed. All of a sudden it makes sense. The bath, the pretty dress…

I spit my sip of tea out, pushing my cup in his direction and hastily standing up, "I'm not a whore." I tell him, my voice full of indignation. _Stupid, stupid, Katniss. _Most girls would have thought of it the second a man of position invited her to stay with him, but I had ignored the signs. I had put myself in this position. I was not the prettiest girl in the city, nor the most experienced, maybe it was simply a matter of convenience. It wasn't uncommon for city officials to seize the girls that fell into their households. And here I am, with no defence against him.

Peeta pulls himself from his seat, throwing his jacket off in an attempt to get the tea off his coat. I instinctually take a step back. Swearing slightly under his breath, he throws his hands up in a sign of withdrawal.

"I didn't mean _anything _like that, I swear!" he cries in his defense "I would _never _ask anything like that of you, I promise. I just—well, you were right there. And you looked so desperate, so worn down. And you deserve more, you both deserve more. What was I supposed to do? Ignore what was right in front of my eyes, after I have been given so much. Let two young girls go back to that _place_? Besides, it's Christmas and quite frankly, Katniss, I am all alone these days. I just thought it would be nice to have some company in this place. And if I could help you, if I could help _Prim_?"

I burn a little, embarrassed at my assumption. Of course he had no interest in me—what was I thinking? He had seen two measly, half-fed girls and had taken them in with compassion. A motivation I would never think of, because I didn't live in Peeta's world. The world in which he is truly (and genuinely kind toward a girl who can offer him nothing than but her company. Although I suppose that's what Peeta Mellark does, he is nice. Just like that bread so many years ago, he is extending his generosity with no expectation of return. And that is the worst part, because how can you return a favor that comes wrapped in pure intentions?

"I'm sorry," I say, clearing my throat, "I shouldn't have made the assumption."

"No," he says, shaking his head, "I'm sorry. I should have put it out there, up front. You made a logical conclusion. Now," he says, picking up his stained jacket, "the first course should be ready soon and we both need a good, hot meal. Why don't you join me for Christmas dinner, Katniss?"

"Fine," I say, pulling myself from the chair and following him, "Oh, and Peeta?"

"Yes?" He politely opens the doorway, allowing me to exit first.

"I'm sorry about your jacket."

* * *

The little parlor Peeta brings me to is lined with Christmas decorations. Expensive ones, not even the popcorn strings and handmade ornaments that the middle class puts up. The room smells like a forest, ribboned greens covering the mantelpiece and hearth. The room is truly picturesque. Little nutcrackers dressed in pink and gold livery, just like the ones that Prim likes to admire in the store windows. There is even a Christmas tree—several of them, in fact. I have never seen so much preparation for a holiday. In the Seam, people weren't nearly that festive. Didn't have the time, didn't have the money. When I was younger my mother used to line our little apartment with the assortment of decorations she had saved from her old life, but all of those things were quickly sold after my father's death.

"This place," I say to Peeta, my eyes flitting around the room, taking note of everything from the gilded lamps to the imported carpets, "it's beautiful."

He nods, "Yes, I suppose it is." He gives me a wave of dismissal, "Want to play a round of cards while we wait? One of the girls should be fetching your sister anytime soon." Peeta gestures towards one of the parlor chairs, offering me a seat. His motions are perfectly refined: the way he pauses to allow me to walk before him, the way he always has an outstretched hand in my direction. It is the decorum of a gentleman, though the sentiment has no place in my world.

"I built this place a couple of years ago," he says, grabbing a pack of cards from an end table. "They were my father's plans. He had let me work on the design, given me real responsibility," there is a glint of sadness in his eyes, "and then he passed. _I imagine you know the feeling._ I wasn't much of an adult at the time but I figured this was a way to honor his memory. I added in some modern conveniences, adjusted the ambiance to better fit my style. It has become my favorite home." He shuffles through the packet of playing cards. "I hope to keep the place forever, raise my family here."

"Is that what you want?" I ask him, being more forward than usual, "A family?" Peeta was a man. He was wealthy and undeniably handsome; if he wished, he could undoubtedly find the perfect society girl to settle down with. A perky blonde girl, like Delly Cartwright or Glimmer Carnegie, one of those types they were always blabbing about in the papers.

"I suppose. _Ecarte?_" He asks, dealing me five cards.

I only nod in response. Ecarte was a fairly simple two-player game. You played with 32 cards and win by having the highest card in a suit. My father had taught me how to play with the weathered pack of Italian playing cards that he kept in the nightstand. When he was alive we used to play every night—all sorts of games, our own little ritual. It was the only thing he had the energy to do by the time he came home from the factory.

"If that is what you want, why haven't you married?" I prod.

"Oh, Katniss," the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile, "you sound like Effie or one of those society page writers. Everybody seems tied up about me being an 'aging' bachelor, as if I shall die alone because I did not get engaged the second I turned eighteen. Really, it is my brother's fault. Everybody has been jumping for me to marry since his wife became pregnant. I assure you, though, I do want a wife and children like most men—it just never seems to work out for me these days. I find myself busy most of the time, setting up my store or dealing with the railroads. I figure I need time to work those things out before I wed. Besides," he says with a laugh, "I am still working on getting a girl to agree to marry me."

_Getting _a girl to marry him? We both knew there were lines of perfectly suitable women and their mothers dying to be the next Mrs. Mellark. "I don't think you will have a problem with that," I tell him with a slight roll of my eyes.

"Oh, really?" he asks, grinning.

I blush, stuttering, "You, you know what I meant. You are Peeta Mellark, after all and—" I'm saved from further explanation when a gray-haired serving woman in a plain black gown peeks into the room, "Mr. Mellark," she says, "Miss Everdeen is ready, may I let her in?"

Peeta waves her in, and that's when Prim ushers in. Her dress is burgundy, a little more cropped than her everyday shifts, but far more mature in style. Longer and sleeker with a high collar. The neckline of the dress is covered in lace dotted with tiny pink roses. From her crisp white sash to the matching bow in her hair, Prim looks like one of those porcelain dolls. Her long blonde hair is shiny, coiled into perfect curls with the help of a hot iron. Her eyes are radiant, she's practically beaming. And there's the slightest hint of pink on her cheeks, standing out against her pale skin.

She's beautiful. Truly, truly, beautiful.

"Why Prim," Peeta says as he politely stands in her presence, welcoming her into the room, "you look like a princess." He takes her hand in his and spins her around, her dress twirling around as she falls back against him, so trusting. I remember her doing this with my father, how he would

'dance' with my giddy, seven-year-old sister, endlessly spinning her around the room to the point that the downstairs neighbors would pound the ceiling. And for a moment, I'm jealous. It is irrational, really, but I cannot help but be irked by the way she acts so naturally around him, as if she has known him her entire life. As if he were her brother. It doesn't help that they look perfect together, with their matching hair and fair eyes. Prim has blended well into his little world.

"Now, dinner should be ready," he says, allowing Prim to lean against him like a giddy child, "Join me in the dining room."

* * *

The dining room is just as lavish as the rest of the house. There are beautiful marble fireplaces and gilded ceilings—everything a wealthy man needed to make a statement. A manservant dressed in finer clothes than any man from the Seam seats us at the table: Peeta at the head, of course, and Prim and I on either side of him. My sister makes small talk with Peeta, pestering him with silly questions. I'm too caught up in the whirl of food to tell her to hush. I've never seen so much of it in my life, and for three people? It's extravagant. I find myself wanting to try everything in my sight, but I know I will get sick if I do.

Every dish is a piece of art. Decorative leaves and flowers, everything set in a way that makes it look like a masterpiece. It seems odd, to spend so much time arranging the food. In the Seam, we were lucky to have a hearty meal. Why waste time making _food_, of all things, look pretty?

The turkey itself is lined with some sort of leafy cabbage, and grapes and cranberries are arranged to look like matching flowers. And that isn't the only meat available. There are all sorts of fish and oysters, a plump roast goose, even a spiral ham set with a creamy sauce that I can't quite place. Along with the meat, there are all types of soups and dishes, a multitude of stuffing and a creamed onion soup that I take a particular liking to. There are a number of gelatin pies and a traditional plum pudding, which is far better than the scrappy one the charity homes brought to the Seam a few years back. My favorite part, though, is the lamb stew. It's warm and comforting, laced with dried plums and the memory of that meal he and I shared, so many nights ago last fall.

"Are you enjoying the stew, Katniss?" Peeta asks me with the slightest edge, breaking his conversation with Prim.

"Yes," I blush at the thought, "it is very good. Thank you for the meal." _Again,_ I think.

Prim nods. "I have never had anything so wonderful in my life. And the ham. And those, what did you call them, sweet potatoes? Everything was so delicious."

Peeta visibly softens at her words. "I assure you, there will be many wonderful dinners to come. You have enjoyed your evening here, I hope?"

"Oh yes!" Prim hastily agrees.

"Well, I am glad you are enjoying yourself and I hope it would not be too much of a trouble if I extended the situation for a few months. Your sister has agreed to accept my _invitation _to spend a bit of time in my home. Isn't that right, Katniss?"

"Yes," I state plainly, "we will be staying here for a while, Prim. Mr. Mellark has agreed to let us take residence."

Prim's eyes light up, and for a moment I wonder if she is going to burst from her seat. "Really? _We_ are going to get to stay in this pretty house?"

Peeta smiles at her, "Yes, my dear. And perhaps I could make good on that promise to bring you riding at my country house? How would you like that?"

My throat goes dry at his words, because as much as I had convinced myself of his intentions I was not partial to charity. The last thing I needed was for Prim to get attached. "Of course," I say, raising an eyebrow, "whatever you want, Mr. Mellark."

Peeta gives me an absent look, "No sense in formalities, _Miss Everdeen. _Call me Peeta."

And I don't get the chance to reply because three servants pull into the room, collecting plates and wheeling out golden carts lined with all sorts of pastries, powdered cakes, and sweet puddings.

"Look!" says Prim, eyeing a platter of tiny cakes adorned with miniature flowers, "Are those petit fours?"

"Yes," Peeta says, his voice lighter in response to Prim, "I suppose they are. You know _Katniss_," he says, pausing to make contact with me, "if you enjoy the cakes I could bring you to the bakery I have on Third. I believe it re-opens on the 28th, how does that sound?"

I pause, collecting my words, "I don't think it would be appropriate." I look into my lap, studying the brocade of my dress in order to avoid looking at him.

"Perhaps not," he says, his voice a little narrower than usual, "_We could always get lunch along the river._"

* * *

**Author's Note: Thanks to Court for her expert beta-ing! Also, keep note of that last line. It is italicized for a reason.**

**As always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety or everlarkfanfictionclub where I gif scenes from everlark fanfiction.**

**Let me know what you thought! Oh, and to the anon who asked yes the cover image is from The Paradise!**


	5. Pennies

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Hunger Games series. All characters, places, and names belong to their respective owners.**

* * *

And endless sea of books surround me. Peeta's library is gorgeous; there's something so pleasing about seeing all of those books lined up. The straight lines of the leather bound books, the gold script along the spines, even the musky smell has a certain appeal.

"Feel free to borrow any of the books. I can make some suggestions, if you'd like," Peeta looks over to me. His hair is slicked back and his hands are in the pockets of his suit.

"I'm sorry," he pauses, "that was a stupid suggestion—I wasn't thinking. I could always teach you though. It wouldn't be a bother."

"_Teach me?_" I raise an eyebrow.

"To read," he says, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "It's alright, you know."

"I can read some." I say hotly, "Surely not as well as you and I doubt I'd be able to get through half a page of one of these books, but I can read, more than most girls in the Seam, at least. You know my mother was educated, after all," I glare at him, "I'm not ignorant."

It is true, I can read a little. Back when I was younger, my mother used to sit with Prim and me and read to us from the small collection of books she owned. Besides, there was always the Astor Library. It was a free place where anybody, even a girl from the Seam, could come to read books. Most of the books were intended for research, but there was a small section of low-level Children's books. I brought Prim there on occasion.

"I am sorry," he apologized, taking a step back, "I never meant to infer—"

I shake my head, interrupting him. "No," I say, "I am sorry. I spoke out of turn.

"I'm going on an outing later," he says, changing the subject, "to check on the store. If you'd like, you could always come with me. Maybe we could go by one of the sweet shops?"

I debate his offer for a moment. It is hardly civil for a girl like me to go on an outing with him, but who am I to refuse a day in the open and free sweets?

"Would Prim come?" I ask.

He runs his hands through his hair. "I was thinking just the two of us, but of course she would be welcome."

"Okay," I agree, my mind flashing back to that meal he and I shared so long ago. "I will come."

* * *

The dress selected for my outing with Peeta is very pretty. Prim would fawn over it, though I can only wonder why one would wear such a fine thing for a walk through the city. The fabric is a simple blue-and-green-plaid satin with little hints of pink; along the front lay thirty or so buttons in a deep blue fabric that line the collar and a big bow that hits matching ruffles along the bottom half of the dress. There is even a hint of lace along the neckline, evidence that no expense was spared in making this dress.

We take Peeta's carriage into the heart of Manhattan, and for once in my life I feel like a woman, wearing that pretty dress and sitting beside a true gentleman in a carriage that could pay the rent for my entire tenement building. I never imagined what it would feel like to be this clean, this well fed, but strangely, in the short time I have spent under Peeta's roof it has become practically second nature to me. Two days of pretty dresses and lavish food does a lot for a person.

The day is bright and the sun is shining down on the city. The snow that once fell freshly is coated in black soot and melting under the sun, but that is to be expected of winter in New York.

"Here," Peeta says, extending his arm to me. It is the type of thing he would do if I was a real lady, not just a pauper in a pretty dress, but I don't remark on it. I simply loop my arm in his and allow him to guide me through the snow-sprinkled streets.

The store is bursting with holiday shoppers; men who have brought their wives and children out to select their own gifts or make their pockets lighter of some Christmas money. Peeta guides me through the hustle, stopping only as he reaches a door that must lead to some back office.

"Here," he says, holding both my hands in his, "I will collect you in an hour. Feel free to wander through the store. When you find something you like, tell the clerk to put it on my tab." I bite my lips. How was I supposed to shop at leisure in the store of a man who had given me so much? The last thing I needed was to owe him any more.

As if reading my thoughts, Peeta smiles, clasping the door handle. "And Katniss, I will expect you to pick _something _out by the time I am finished. You can always select something for your sister or perhaps a friend. Don't be frugal on my expense."

* * *

I wander aimlessly through the department store. For once in my life, however, the shop girls take notice of me, offering their assistance and peddling goods to me. But everything I see either seems to silly (what am I to do with a feathered pendant or a velvet hat?) or useless in Peeta's home. (I have no need for simple shoes or aprons anymore.) The search is made easier when I eye a glass case lined with hair ribbons, and settle on picking one for Prim. She would enjoy the sentiment and it was the most practical gift I could think of.

"Pardon," I say to the woman behind the counter, "could I see the ribbons in the case over there?"

The girl eyes me up and down, taking in my appearance. "Forgive me ma'am," she says, "you looked like a girl that came in here the other day."

I flush, feeling almost confined by my pretty dress, as if it were a costume and I were wrong to wear it. She knew that I was nothing more than a thief.

I shake my head. "You must be mistaken. I will take that one," I tell her, pointing to a random ribbon with no care for selection. I needed to get out of here as soon as possible.

She snaps her mouth shut. "Of course, miss. And how will you be paying for your purchase this afternoon?"

I bite my lip. "Could you charge it to Mr. Mellark's account, thank you?" I clasp the parchment bag she has enclosed Prim's ribbon in and quickly turn to make an exit.

"Not so fast," the girl says, snatching the bag from me. "I cannot simply charge your purchase to my employer's account." She laughs. "As if that tactic would work. You know, I swore I recognized you, the thief from the other day! I bet you stole those fancy clothes as well."

I look at her, flustered. What was I to tell her? That Peeta Mellark was my what? _Captor? Guardian? Friend?_

But I am saved from an explanation as warm hands snake around my waist and a steady, but recognizably cheery voice, beams from behind me. "Gracious, Katniss. I looked all over for you. Did you make your selection?"

I turn toward him, backing away from his intimate stance. The shop girl's eyes widen in shock, "Mr. Mellark," she says, blushing, "I didn't—I mean, it is nice to see you in the store. Not that we have met. My name is Emily. Would you need anything else?"

Peeta gives her a grin, the type of grin that I imagine makes all the society ladies faint. "It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Emily." Peeta looks over to me. "Do tell, what did you select, Katniss?"

"A ribbon," I say plainly, squirming under the skirts of my dress. The whole situation is making my terribly uncomfortable.

"A ribbon?" He gives an almost sentimental laugh. "The choice of everything in this store and you chose a ribbon?"

I anxiously squash my toes against the counter. "A hair ribbon," I say defensively, "for Prim."

"Oh, Katniss," he says in a tone that irks me. Turning towards the shop girl, he smiles. "Emily, why don't you show me the jewelry cases? I would love to purchase my _dear friend _one of those pretty little pieces we got in the other week."

"Of course, Mr. Mellark," the girl says, stooping below the counter to unlock a case with using the key that hangs around her neck. "Here," she says, producing a tray of fine little cameos.

I tug my braid, how was I supposed to accept one of these? I doubt Peeta would let me off the hook.

"I'm sorry, Katniss," Peeta says, catching on to my nervousness, "do you not like them? I could always having something from the jewelry department brought out."

"No," I assure him, "they're perfect. How about that one in the corner?" I nod toward the shop girl, selecting the plainest piece in the tray and hoping it doesn't cost too much.

Peeta nods. "Wonderful! Emily, have the necklace wrapped up and sent to my home. You know, Katniss," he says, turning to me, "if you find the cameos pretty I could always have a custom piece drawn up for you, perhaps something in memory of your mother, dotted with primrose flowers?"

I shake my head, quickly dismissing the idea. The relationship I had with my mother didn't fit commemorative jewelry. She was gone and that was that.

* * *

After my selections are made, Peeta guides me through his private passageways and up to that same office.

"Is there any way," I say, my hands clasped behind my back as he leads me into the third floor, "that later on you could have somebody bring me out to the Seam?"

Peeta looks up, befuddled. "Why would you want to go back _there_?"

The soles of my brand new boots tilt nervously against the shiny wooden floorings. "I have sentimental belongings, pieces of my parents, and if I don't make the rent this month they will be lost forever."

A hint of sadness flashes over Peeta. "Of course," he says in a softer tone, "I was not thinking. If it is no bother to you, I could always walk you down there when I finish my affairs. We may have to skip on the sweet shop for time's sake, but I could always have something delivered."

* * *

I spend the rest of a good hour sitting in the waiting room of Peeta's office, stashing the little candies he gives to me as a treat for Prim. A new hair ribbon and caramels—she will be more than pleased.

But finally, Peeta emerges from his office, a small leather bag in his hands, and leads me through the store and back to his carriage, which is waiting on a sidestreet.

"I thought we might take the carriage most of the way there," Peeta says. "It's a long walk and in this weather it doesn't seem sensible." Peeta leans out and calls to the driver, "Bring me to Orchard Street, Lower East Side."

The driver looks at him after helping me into the car. "That's the Seam, sir. Are you sure it is right to bring a _lady _there?"

I smile to myself. The Seam was my home; if anything, it is Peeta that should be fretted over.

"Yes," Peeta says, "I'm sure. You can drop us off there. I know the area."

And so we drive through the city in silence. Peeta works on his books and I stare out the window, the pretty shops and whirl of dresses slowly turning into overcrowded streets and dusty fire-escapes. Peeta's fairytale home had almost made me forget what the real world is like. Here, in the Seam, there aren't any ten-foot tables lined to the brim with food or blue satin dresses. Here there is only honest work and the joys of making it through another year; the hope that fills every immigrant's heart when they realize they have made it once again. My father had once thought this way about our life in the Seam; he claimed it was better than the homeland, that America was a place where anybody could start over. But look where that had gotten him. He had been killed trying to feed his family. What sort of dreamland was that?

When we step out of the carriage and make our way through Orange Street, I realize the mistake I have made. Peeta would not attract too much attention if he was on his own; men's clothes were simple that way, but I stick out like a sore thumb with my large bright dress, the printed fabric untainted by the dust that coats the Seam.

"I think," I say, leaning over to Peeta, "we are attracting attention." And we are, every workers' wary eyes are on me, wondering why a 'respectable woman' would ever be in this part of town. A cluster of children, their worn clothes and light layers indicative that they are Seam, even pause their stickball game to look at us, one of them dashing across the street to proposition Peeta for a coin.

"Mister," the boy says, gripping his side in an attempt to garner sympathy, "would it trouble a gentleman and his wife to give a poor boy a holiday penny?"

I laugh a little, amused that anybody, even a brash Seam boy, would think that I am Peeta's wife.

"Run along," I say to the boy, "he doesn't have any pennies for you."

The boy frowns, turning to leave.

"Wait!" Peeta says, "I think I might have something, but you can't tell your friends."

The boy brightens. "Really, sir?"

"Peeta!" I say, swatting his hand. "You cannot give away coins on the street. You will never hear the end of it from every beggar in a four-block radius, or worse, you will get yourself mugged." I turn to the boy. "Tell me, does your mama know you are asking strangers for coins, like a common beggar?" I harden my voice and wave at him. "Now dash."

This time the boy listens, running away to rejoin his friends. We walk a little, avoiding the stares of passerbyes before Peeta speaks up.

"Katniss," he says, his voice on edge, "that boy, he looked so thin."

I wonder what it was like to be Peeta—so generous, so trusting. I had grown up here; it wasn't uncommon to see elderly starving in the streets and I had learned to become unfazed by it, if you wanted to survive you couldn't car. But Peeta was like Prim. He saw the depravity in the world and felt the need to fix it. Of course he would want to help that boy. After all, he had taken me in with no expectations.

"Peeta," I say, "they all do. _You can't save them all._"

"I know," he says, "it is not my first time in this part of town, but if I could have done one tiny thing to make that child's day, why shouldn't I?"

"Because it is silly, Peeta," I say, slightly exasperated. "You can't go giving coins to every begging child you meet. Here," I say as we turn a corner onto the cramped noisy street I called home, "my building's just up there."

"Who are you to call me silly," Peeta says with a little huff, "when you have benefited from my generosity?"

I scowl at him. "I never asked for you to take me in, _Mr. Mellark._"

I look up at the tenement building in front of me and pull on the door, bits of chipped paint catching onto my sleeve. "Here we are." I stamp my foot impatiently. "You don't have to follow me in." I can see how uncomfortable Peeta looks right now; he's practically gagging at the smell that lingers from the door. Cramped quarters never made for the most pleasant of scents.

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Katniss. I haven't been in this part of town for some time. I had forgotten," Peeta says, briefly covering his mouth with his handkerchief, "the cruelty of this place."

"Fine," I say, grabbing his hand and hastily guiding him up the rickety wooden stairs to the floor my room was on. When we reach the landing, however, I am troubled to find that the door to my room is jammed.

"I think it is stuck," I say to Peeta. "We'll have to go see Cray."

And that is when I see him, the tall shadow standing in the doorway, a voice almost as familiar as my own. "Katniss," he says, almost uncertain, "is that you?"

"_Gale," _I mutter, just under my breath.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thanks again to the lovely Court for beta-ing this fic! I was a little unsure about this chapter, so please let me know what you liked and disliked! Are you looking forward to seeing Gale? **

**As always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety and you can follow my hunger games fanfic blog at everlarkfanfictionclub. Thank you for reading!**


	6. Cream

**Disclaimer: All names, characters, and places belong to their respective owners. Big thank you to Court for beta-ing this story!**

* * *

"Katniss," Gale looks me over for a moment, blinking slightly as he takes in my attire, "where were you?" His voice lowers as he notices Peeta. "And _who_ is this?" Gale says gruffly, standing a little straighter.

"That's Peeta." I bite my lip and cross my arms, "I'm," I look around anxiously, balling my hands at my sides, "...staying with him for a while."

"Peeta? Peeta _Mellark?_" Gale says, raising an eyebrow. "What _business _do you have with him?"

I glance at Peeta, who looks a little anxious. "He's a...friend. Um, Peeta this is Gale Hawthorne. We work together."

Peeta, ever the gentleman, steps out from behind me and extends his hand. "It is a pleasure to meet a colleague of Katniss's."

Gale huffs a little, staring at Peeta's extended hand and Peeta falters, awkwardly placing his hand to his side. "_Gale," _I hiss under my breath.

Gale snorts. "I'm not her _colleague_. And I'm not shaking hands with no Mellark, that's for sure."

Peeta's jaw locks and he moves a little closer to me, his hand brushing against mine as he raises his voice, this time not in that even, polite tone, but with an authoritative edge. "I am sorry, do you have some sort of grievance with my family?"

I roll my eyes and scowl, releasing my hand from Peeta's. "Oh, for god's sake, why don't you just drop your pants and get it over with?" I turn toward Peeta, "Would you run downstairs and get Cray? He lives in the apartment with the green door. I need a moment."

"Are you sure, Katniss?" Peeta looks nervously at Gale, "If you want we can leave now, you don't have to speak to this man if you don't want to."

"I'm fine," I assure him. "Just go." Peeta looks a little reluctant and he doesn't leave without giving Gale a warning look, but eventually he closes the level door and marches rather loudly down the apartment stairs.

"_Peeta Mellark?_" Gale looks at me the second he leaves. "You went missing with Peeta Mellark? You two ran off together?"

"No," I say, biting my lip, "it wasn't like that."

Gale throws his hands in the air. "Sure, sure. And you're what—sleeping with him? What sort of example will that set for Prim? I highly doubt _Mellark _plans to marry you."

Anger boils inside of me at the implication and I have to bite my teeth to keep from slapping him. "I'm not fucking him, you idiot."

Gale narrows his brow, reality overcoming him. "Are you in some kind of trouble, Katniss?"

"No," I say. "Well, sorta. I did something wrong, Gale." I lower my voice. "_I stole a pair of shoes."_

Gale turns red with that heated anger I know so well; it is the look he used to give men when they'd call out to me from the streets, or when somebody would beat up Rory. "And what? He's holding that against you, forcing you to _be with him_?"

I shake my head at the implication. "It's not like that, Gale. He has taken me in, me and Prim. He has given us clothes and food. You should see the way Prim lit up when she saw the Christmas feast he shared with us."

Gale shakes his head. "A man like that doesn't give any of that away without expecting something."

"You don't know him like I do. I have spoken to him. His intentions are decent. And besides, he could get a far more experienced woman in his bed for a much cheaper price."

"You don't see it, do you? This is _insane_. You have to be careful, Katniss. And you didn't even send word to us! My mother about had half the Seam looking for you when you didn't come home."

"I'm sorry, Gale," I pause and look at him. "I didn't have any way to contact you. Wait," I say, "you know the Mellark Mansion, right? Tuesday at midday, come to the back kitchen and tell one of the women there that you're here to see me. I'll stock up on some food and you can bring it to Hazelle and the kids. "

"You know I can't accept th—" Gale starts to say before he is interrupted by the calamitous sound of multiple footsteps climbing the rickety tenement stairs.

"Katniss!" I hear a voice call out to me. "I fetched your landlord." Peeta stands in the doorway, the clean, elegant lines of his suit contrasting with Cray's outdated jacket and too small burgundy waistcoat.

As soon as they walk into the room, I can see Gale visibly stiffen and I'm not sure if it is Cray or Peeta that causes him to grumble under his breath.

"You want me to stay, Katniss?" he says, placing his hand on my shoulder.

I shake my head. "I'm fine, Gale, really."

He nods, most likely because his shift starts in an hour. "Fine," he says, crossing his arms. "Just look, Katniss," he sneers at Peeta, "don't make the mistake of trusting your little town boy, alright?" Gale tips his hat at me and turns toward the back door, his footsteps clinking throughout the room as he climbs down the fire-escape.

"Ah," Mr. Cray says, rolling his set of keys around his fingers. "Ms. Everdeen finally got herself a master."

My jaw hardens and it takes everything in me not to slap him. When my arrangement with Peeta ends, I might need another room and the last thing I need is to piss him off. Cray is notorious around these parts for two things: his cheap apartments and his girls. I had never been desperate enough to sell myself, but that didn't stop his leering looks or his 'generous' offers to reduce my rent in exchange for 'services.'

"I assure you Ms. Everdeen is very much an independent woman. I am not her master," Peeta says, and I can see that he too is bothered by the implication.

"Oh, sure, sure," Cray says as he shuffles through his keys. "Man, though, if I had known what she would look like all dolled up, I would have scooped your Ms. Everdeen up years ago."

Peeta's fist hardens in response and almost instinctually, I place my hand on his, giving him a gentle smile that says '_don't.'_

"Here you go," says Cray, chuckling to himself as he swings open the door to the room I shared with Prim.

A wave of embarrassment falls over me as Peeta and I enter our little apartment. The room is small, even for Seam standards, and it is so bare, and I cannot help but wish that I had more to show for my life's possessions.

"Here," Peeta says, overturning one of the apple boxes Prim used as a nightstand, "you can put your things in here and we can bring it back _home_."

I look around the room for a second, trying to decide what is worth bringing. Directly across from me, along the back wall, hang the few dresses I own. Sure, they don't have much value to me now, but two of them were my mother's. They have sentimental value. Prim will want them, at least.

"I assume you'll want this," Peeta says from the other side of the room, and when I turn to look at him, I see he's holding a wooden picture frame in his hand.

"Yeah," I say with a heavy sigh, "that's my father. It's the only photo I have of him, and I guess I'll take these too." I pull two dresses from their wooden hooks and toss them into the box.

Peeta looks at me. "You don't need clothing, Katniss?"

I fold my arms. "No, but they're my mother's and _Prim _would hate to lose them."

Peeta's eyes soften. "_Oh,_" he says, "I'm sorry. I understand though. When my father died, I slept with his favorite scarf for two weeks. I still have it hanging in my office. You keep those little remembrances of the people you love."

I try to imagine Peeta's father. Was he as cruel as his mother? He couldn't be, if Peeta loved him that much.

"I guess," I shrug, moving to the dresser drawer and snatching up the few valuables we had: A ring of my mother's, a few lacy handkerchiefs, and the antique salt shaker my father had brought with him to America.

"I think that's it."

* * *

"So," Peeta pauses, his eyes shifting across the carriage, "Gale, he is a colleague of yours?"

"Yes," I say. "Well, sort of. Gale's a lot more than that to me. He has a shift in the same factory, but really, we've known each other for years."

"Oh," he says, his voice becoming gradually flatter, "you two are close?"

"I guess," I shift a little in my seat, "I'm closer to Gale than anybody else, except for Prim, of course."

"That little boy," Peeta says, changing the conversation, "the one that asked me for money, why did you turn him down so quickly? We could have helped."

I mull over his question. Peeta probably thinks me cruel, having never known suffering before, much less lived in a place like Seam.

"There are rules in the place where I grew up, you can't give money freely like that, Peeta."

Peeta raises an eyebrow at me. "But that one boy, Katniss. That child has probably never been so lucky. How can you do that—how can you deny that boy his penny?"

I scowl at him, annoyed at his blatant display of moral superiority. "Because I have seen it all before. I'm not cold, Peeta. I'm just being practical. It was ill advised to give that boy a coin in the open street, but seeing as you seem so keen on helping him, I'm sure you could find his mother and send her a basket of bread," I say a little too hotly. "Maybe you could take _his _sister out for a bowl of lamb stew?"

His eyes meet mine, memories of the unspoken day we once shared crossing between us. "Katniss," he says, just as the carriage comes to a stop, "I don't think you're that easily replaceable."

* * *

The moment we arrive back, the red-headed serving girl ushers me away to freshen up for dinner. It's a whole forty minutes of primping and polishing, re-washing my face and switching out my boots. Ridiculous, I think, as it is only Peeta and Prim who will see me, but it is hardly my right to complain about the upkeep of fine gowns that are prepped for an extravagant evening meal. Not when I could be getting acquainted with a jail cell right about now.

By the time I go downstairs, Prim and Peeta are already seated at the table, laughing amongst themselves over a savory soup course that is awaiting my arrival. It's funny to see how trusting she is with this strange man, how easy he finds it to make her smile.

"Katniss," Peeta says, giving me a half nod as I take my seat, "Prim was just telling me that she has the highest arithmetic score of any girl in her class. You must be very proud of her."

I take a sip of the soup, a mixture of spices I can't quite place flooding my mouth. "Yes," I say, as I take a tiny, "Prim does very well in school."

"Yes," he says, "I was thinking," he looks at me, "and of course, this would have to be done with your permission...winter break will be over shortly and seeing as Prim does so well, I was thinking _we _could enroll her in a girls' school."

I wrinkle my nose at the suggestion; it bothers me, Peeta co-opting my life like this. Changing Prim's school, moving me into his home—what were we to do when this was all over? It is hardly his place to decide that Prim should attend a different school, and it isn't like I really have a choice. I can't hold my sister back from a better education.

Prim's eyes widen and she practically leaps out of her chair in excitement. "A private school?" she questions. "One of the schools in the fancy buildings where the girls get to wear those matching dresses and plaid bows?"

"Yes," Peeta says, his lips turning upward in a smile at her excitement, "but you'll have to ask your sister of course. Spence School is on West 48th. I have an associate that just enrolled his daughter there. And there is Brearley here on the East side. My aunt is on their board. I could arrange for an interview if that's alright with you, Katniss."

Prim's pleading eyes look up to me from across the dining table. "Are you sure you would like to go to a school like that?" I ask her, hesitant to agree. "I bet all you would learn is how to curtsy and stack a pile of books on your head. Hardly enticing stuff."

Peeta laughs. "I assure you, Katniss, it is far more than that. Education for women is changing and these schools offer the highest caliber of mathematics and literature available to young women. You know, my brother says that Abbot Academy has practically exceeded Andover in terms of education. Prim's a bright young lady. I am sure she would benefit."

I push the food on my plate around, trying to avoid the stares of the two people waiting anxiously for my reply. "Fine," I say with a sigh, "if Prim wants to, she can go."

Peeta nudges Prim under the table. "That's wonderful. How about later we go out to an ice cream parlor? You both would love it. There are more flavors than you could possibly imagine—and I figure we all deserve to celebrate a bit."

When dinner, a five-course meal consisting of tender lamb and a plethora of side dishes and fruits, finally wraps up, Prim goes upstairs to change while Peeta and I retire in the sitting room.

"You can't just do that, you know." I raise my voice as the door closes to the sitting room. "Sweep her up and put her some private school. Maybe you have forgotten, but she's not _your _sister, Peeta."

Peeta places a hand on my shoulder and I tug it away. "Katniss, I am not attempting to step into your place here, but the two of you are living under my roof. It is only practical she attends a school nearby. Besides, Prim's a very lovely girl; she could make something out of herself. Now why don't you grab your coat and let us all have a nice little outing, if that's alright with you?"

I narrow my eyes at his condescending tone. He is speaking to me as if I am his unruly daughter. "You're not my father, Peeta."

He grins. "Trust me, I know that."

* * *

Prim skips the entire way to the ice cream parlor, the pink satin fabric of her dress swishing against the counter as she peers against the shop's glass. It really is a magical place. The floors are checkered and the counters a shiny marble. The air is crisp and cold; the lingering scent of sweets drifting through the air. I can't help but feel guilty when I look around. This place obviously caters to the upper class. On the rare occasion that the less affluent members of this city purchase ice cream, it is from one of the cheaper street vendors.

Peeta knows what he wants immediately,—a single scoop of strawberry—but Prim stares at the glass partition for a solid five minutes before deciding on chocolate.

"Katniss," Peeta's hand graces against my forearm, "are you ready to order?"

"Strawberry," I tell the man behind the counter, settling on the only flavor I'm really accustomed with.

"Peeta Mellark!" a sickly sweet voice calls out from inside the shop, and out of the corner of my eye I spot a pretty blonde woman in a bright blue dress moving over to the counter.

"Cashmere," Peeta says, greeting the woman with a smile, "what a pleasure to see you here."

I turn away and lean my chin against the glass, attempting to avoid the stares that would assuredly come from Peeta's flirty socialite.

"A pleasure to see you too, Peeta. And who is this sweetie?" Cashmere says, pointing to Prim. "She must be a Mellark, with those beautiful blue eyes."

"She's not," I say, turning toward the woman, my hands clasped behind my back.

The woman raises an eyebrow at me. Prim is young enough to be harmless, but I am a different story, a woman of age out with the Mellark heir at an ice cream parlor. It's enough to make her turn up her nose and go, "Oh, and who are you?"

"That's Katniss," Peeta says, taking my ice cream from the man behind the counter. "She and her sister, Primrose, are staying with me for a while. They're...friends of the family."

At this, Cashmere laughs. "Oh, of course, Peeta. How generous of you! You know, Glimmer is back from Boston for the holidays and she is hosting a lovely little New Year's party. I'm sure she would love if you would come down."

I scowl at that. Glimmer Carnegie is one of the women Peeta had been rumored to be courting a couple years back. The press had moaned on about their apparent romance for months in the papers the girls traded at the factory, but from what I had heard from the nightshift gossip, nothing had ever come of it.

"Well," Peeta says, avoiding the topic ever so gracefully, "it was lovely seeing you. Tell your mother I said hello." And with that, he gives her a wave and guides the two of us over to one of the gilded booths.

* * *

The ice cream was delicious. Cool and creamy against my tongue, the strawberry flavor lingers in my mouths even as I lie in the lonely bed that night, unable to sleep. The room Peeta gives me is cold, too large and empty for my liking. I am so used to sharing a bed with Prim in our little apartment, I find it hard to feel comfortable in this open darkness. My sister, on the other hand, has adjusted to her room with no problem. It adjoins mine, pretty and lacy and pink. Everything she ever wanted.

After lying in bed for nearly an hour, I decide to roam the hallways. It is nearly pitch black now, but I can see the faint outline of doors and railings from the city light that filters through the house. None of the servants are awake at this hour; they have all scurried away to their own rooms on the top floor, no doubt.

And then I see the light shining from underneath one of the doors. It's Peeta's room; it has to be. There is nobody else residing on this floor, and besides, this room is centered in the hallway, presumably the master bedroom.

The temptation courses through me unexpectedly. It must be the boredom, I figure—the need to do something after staying up for so many hours. I can't help but place my hand on the golden knob and turn it ever so slightly, just as the door pops open.

And then I hear his voice, sleepy and just slightly perplexed, "_Katniss?_"

* * *

**Author's Note: Well, folks, what did you think? Leave me a review and let me know:)**


	7. Chestnuts

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Hunger Games universe. All places, names, and characters belong to their respective owners. Big thank you to my beta, Court, for all her help with this story!**

* * *

Peeta looks up at me, his eyes full of question as he opens the door a little wider. "Do you need something?" he asks me.

He's wearing a stained apron, and not four feet away from the doorway an easel is set up. It isn't hard to come to a conclusion—he's painting.

"I saw the light," I say, biting my lip, "_You're painting?_"

"Ah, yes," he says, turning over the canvas and placing it over the stool, as if he were hiding something. "I couldn't sleep."

It's funny to look around this room and think of it as Peeta's. It's a little messier than I would have expected; piles of books cluttered around and an array of equipment scattered about. The decor is most definitely him, though. The room has something serene about it, blue walls and thick molding, a few sturdy red-gingham-covered chairs and side tables. Beyond the little sitting room we are in are opened double doors that lead to his bed chamber. I can just barely see the outline of his bed from here. How strange is this? A couple of weeks ago I would have laughed at the thought of being so close to Peeta Mellark's bed.

He looks at me. "Uh, you want to come in?"

I shrug and take a step forward. "Sure."

Peeta closes the door behind me and offers me one of the armchairs. Sifting through the tea service to the side of us, he takes out a bread basket before sitting beside me. "Cheese buns," he says with a smile, "_the family bakery makes them._"

I choke a little at his comment, my mind twisting in remembrance of the last time he had said those words to me.

"So," Peeta says, "I just purchased the grounds on which the Pan-American Exposition was held. It is set for demolition, but if you want, we could take a day trip up there."

"The World Fair?" I squint, "Where McKinley was killed?" It was odd to think about, Peeta owning the very place where the President had been assassinated, not two months ago.

He nods and gives me a sad smile. "The President was a good man, but nonetheless, I think it might make for an interesting outing. You should have seen it when the World Fair was up. Oh, Katniss, I would have loved to bring you there."

I shift uncomfortably, turning away from him. "I bet _Prim _would have loved to go."

Peeta looks at him, his blue eyes dancing wildly as he looks at me. His hair is still sticking in every direction and there is something about him right now that feels so intimate. "I bet _you _would have enjoyed it. You know what, when work slows down for me I could bring you to Charleston. Maybe we could go, _just the two of us_. I could bring you to the South Carolina Exposition. It is no World Fair but I have a home down there and I am sure you would love the city. It is like no other."

I keep my face neutral and try not to betray the hint of excitement I feel about the prospect of going that far away from New York.

"Tell me," I say to him, "how do you even get to Charleston? I bet it is hundreds of miles away."

"Oh," he shrugs, "it is really not that hard. My rail company has a train going from New York to Charleston every other day. You really ought to see the South. Everything is so different down there. Tell me, Katniss, have you even left the city?"

I shake my head. "My father brought me to Long Island once, when I was a lot younger."

"Well then," Peeta says matter-of-factly, "you have a lot of the world to see. Maybe one day, if you ever marry, your husband might bring you on a honeymoon to Europe."

I snort at that; the thought of me marrying was humorous enough. But wedding a man who would take me to Europe? The idea was laughable.

"I don't think there will be any wedding parties or honeymoons in my future."

He looks at me. "Why do you say that?"

I shrug. "It has never been in my future. Marriage. Children."

"Don't you want that?" He stares intently at me. "Somebody to love, to spend the rest of your life with?"

"I think it is different for you, Peeta. Look around. The world is very cruel. The last thing I need in life is to be widowed and pregnant, like so many women in the Seam are. Or worse, to die in childbirth."

Peeta relaxes against the sofa, his eyes drifting away. "It is a pity then, because any man would be lucky to wed you."

"Yeah," I raise an eyebrow, "like who?"

There is a moment of silence and I take it as my answer. Peeta is wrong; any husband of mine would be in for a fight. I am a terrible cook and hardly submissive enough to fulfill the grueling duties of a Seam man's wife.

But then Peeta breaks the silence. "Katniss," he says, his voice small and shaky, too timid for such a great man, "do you remember that day, _last fall?_"

"_Yes," _I say, "_I do." _Because how could I forget?

* * *

_I was sitting on the side of the North __River. My_ _hair was strewn against my face, my black day dress sullied with the day's worth of grime as my feet dangled over the water._

_It __was_ _just after I had turned sixteen. The day was kind of chilly, the way the fall always __was __in the Seam, just before people __gave_ _in and finally __started_ _heating their homes. At the time, I was out of a job. My growth spurt, delayed by grief and malnutrition, had finally set in and I was no longer useful. Finding a new position had been_ _difficult. A_ _couple of boats_ _had_ _just docked with fresh immigrants, people willing to work for the lowest of wages, and at my age, I wasn't taking priority on any of the lists._

_So I was hungry, and it must have shown, because that __was_ _when the boy approached me. I didn't even notice him at first, not until I saw him sitting beside me on the riverbank, his eyes warm and pleasant in that unmistakably charming Peeta Mellark way._

_I was a little startled at first, when I realized who he was. He had been coming around a little more __recently. I_ _had found his bread on my doorstep more than once this week. _

"_It's strange," he said, taking the seat beside me and peering out into the horizon. He was holding a brown bag in his hand and wearing a fine deep brown suit, the one I had seen him wear when he was delivering bread, with a large burgundy scarf. _

_I cast my eyes towards the grass, absentmindedly picking at the dandelions along the bank, "What is?"_

"_To look out into this city and think that not too long ago the Indians were roaming these lands. And now look at everything around __us. The __greatest city in America has developed so quickly!"_

_Why is he talking to me? I thought to myself, shrugging his comment off. My face burned slightly with the thought of what he had done for me so many years. I wondered for a moment if he knew that he had saved me, saved Prim. Then again, I doubted he even remembered. _

"_I suppose," I said to him, not quite meeting his eye._

"_I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself. I'm Peeta, Peeta __Mellark." He_ _smiled at me, offering his hand to shake._

"_I know," I said to him, declining his extended hand with a __nod. "__Katniss."_

"_Well, __Katniss," he said, retrieving two tin boxes from the brown bag, "I hope you like lamb stew. I was supposed to meet up with somebody and so my cook packed two __lunches." He_ _gave me a grin, edging one of the tins towards me and popping the lid on his own._

_I eyed the tin suspiciously, my mouth watering as the mixture of meat and spices_ _filled the air. _"_I __can't __accept that," I told him._

_As much as I would have __loved to have_ _a full meal right now, it __would have been __wrong for me to accept food from practically strange men. Everything came with a price, after all._

_He frowned, as if I was doing him a trouble by not taking the food he __was_ _offering, "That is your prerogative, I suppose. Why don't you just try one bite, __Katniss?_ _The food will surely go to waste otherwise."_

_I sighed, giving in to my stomach and popping open the tin. The foggy heat of the food __greeted __me with the most wondrous smell as I examined the contents. The tin was split in two by a __divider;_ _the stew __was on __one side and there __was_ _a fresh bun covered in what must __have been_ _cheese on the other._

"_It's a cheese bun," Peeta said as he passed me a __spoon. "The_ _family bakery makes them."_

_I took a bite of the bun first. It was light and fluffy in the way bread never __was __in the __Seam._ _And oh, the cheese was just perfect, distinctly sharp like the chunks my father used to share with me when he __had had_ _a good week at work. _

_The lamb stew was even better, so pleasing to my lips, which had only tasted coarse bread and thin cheese for so long. It __was a little __richer than I expected, well spiced and thick with chunks of meat, carrots, onions, and what_ _must have been plums __poured over rice. I remember wondering what it must be like to eat such food every __day. No __wonder so many of the rich __were_ _plump._

"_Thank you," I said softly as Peeta passed me a burgundy napkin. And it was a loaded comment, because in those words I meant to thank him for everything. The stew, the bread he gave me so many years ago, and even the loaves he doled out throughout the neighborhood._

"_You're welcome," he said, his eyes meeting mine in a way that __made __my insides burn._

_I nodded, turning away from him, and just as I brushed off my dress and __stood_ _up to leave, he __spoke __up._

"_Katniss!" he called out to_ _me. "__Would you like to go for a stroll?"_

"_A stroll?" I squinted at him._

"_A walk," he __explained. "Just __along the river."_

_I hesitated. I did owe him, after all, and he had shared his lunch with me. That warranted a stroll along the water, didn't it?_

"_Fine," I said, "I'll walk with you."_

_Peeta's eyes lit up and he gave me the most terribly childish grin as he extended his arm for __me. _"_There are rocks," he explained as I looked at __him. "I __wouldn't want you to fall." _

_Normally I __would have never touched_ _a man like this in __public. I __had never even let Gale take my arm, but for some inexplicable reason I conceded, taking __Peeta's arm_ _and allowing the __coal-stained_ _sleeve of my dress to touch the impeccable lines of his suit._

_The surrounding area wasn't very busy during the time of our walk. There were a few vendors peddling small foods every hundred or so feet, and a few families walking along, but not much else. But Peeta eased the silence, making small talk as we walked. And as I listened to his idle conversation, I found myself panicking. What had I allowed myself to do? Share lunch with this man? Stroll along the river with my arm linked in his as if we were lovers? Kind as he may seem, what do I really know about Peeta Mellark?_

"_There is a lot of development coming to this area," Peeta looked at me, his eyes catching onto my hesitation. _

"_Yeah," I said quietly, my body relaxing against his as the flutters in my stomach_ _eased. "There_ _is talk of building a small theatre around here."_

"_Hmm," Peeta said, "I hadn't heard of that, but if you enjoy the theatre, I could take you to a play uptown."_

_I shook my __head. "It __wouldn't be appropriate." _

"_Of course," he said, "I wouldn't want to impose. __Oh, Katniss__, do you smell that?" Peeta pointed outwards to the little brown peddling cart a few yards before us. _

"_Roasted chestnuts," I said with a sigh, letting the heavenly aroma flood my nostrils. _

"_Would you like to split a satchel with me?" Peeta offered._

_I_ _drew_ _my facial expressions into the blank slate I __was __so used to displaying, my momentary lapse of judgement __having turned __into sheer panic at his __offer. "No,_" _I say flatly, "I should really head home."_

"_Are you __sure?" Peeta said. "Would_ _you like me to walk you home?"_

"_I'm fine," I said __sharply. "This __is my neighborhood, after all, not_ _yours._"

"_Alright, then." He_ _ran his hand through_ _his hair. "I __enjoyed walking with you, Katniss." And with __that, he __leaned in to give me a kiss on the_ _cheek, but __I managed to squirm in nervousness and found his lips pressing against the tiniest corner of my mouth as he bid me goodbye with a smile. _

It wasn't a kiss, what we shared, but I still found myself dodging Peeta everytime he drifted into the Seam. Not long after that day I ended up taking a shift at the thread factory and soon enough there was enough on the table for Prim and I. We survived once again, not needing to rely on Peeta Mellark's generosity and casual friendliness. At least, not until the day I decided to steal shoes from the Mellark's Department Store.

* * *

**Author's Note: Well there it is guys, that "day last fall"! I hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think in the comments below.**

**You can find me on tumblr at starveinsafety or everlarkfanfictionclub.**


	8. Baskets

**Disclaimer: All names, characters, and places belong to their respective owners. Only the original words, plots, etc. belong to me.**

* * *

But then, Peeta breaks the silence. "Katniss," he says, his voice small and shaky, too timid for such a great man, "do you remember that day, _last fall?_"

"_Yes," _I say, "_I do." _Because how could I forget?

"You do?" he questions, his eyes brightening ever so slightly as the corners of his mouth curl into a smile.

"The soup," I edify, "it was good." He laughs at that, giving me a playful punch to the shoulder. "What?" I ask him, slightly insulted.

"Oh, nothing." His eyes crinkle up into a genuine smile and he stares at me for the briefest moment, our eyes catching in the shadowy darkness of the room.

His glance turns ever so slightly downward towards my lips and for a moment I think he's going to kiss me, but then he sighs and turns towards the tray. "It's getting late, Katniss, you should head to bed."

* * *

"Miss Everdeen," a sing-songy voice shakes me awake. "Miss Everdeen, you have to wake up. There's a boy here for you."

My eyes slowly open and I sit up in bed, turning towards the young dark-colored maid, Rue, that has awoken me. "What?" I say, rubbing my eyes.

"There's a boy here for you. He's waiting at the kitchen with Sae. Says he knows you."

I perk up at that. _Gale. _

"Thanks," I tell her. "You can go, if you want."

She looks at me. "You sure? Don't you want me to help you dress, Miss Everdeen?"

I shake my head. "I'm good, thank you."

She shrugs and turns towards the door, grabbing the laundry on the way out and closing the door with a smile. With no time to dress, I sift through my closet for the pink dressing gown I have become quite fond of. It was a tad wrinkly and probably improper to wear in public, but I doubt Gale or any of the kitchen girls will care much.

It must be a busy day, because the hallways are bursting with an array of serving girls as I make my way downstairs to the kitchens. A manservant totes heavy boxes up the service elevator and parlor maids dressed in black dresses and stiff white aprons shuffle through the guestrooms—whatever is going on must be terribly important for this type of frantic response.

And what I see downstairs in the kitchen is even more hectic. The scullery maids seem to be working on every pot in the place, and all of the stoves are busy with a tantalizing mix of smells that flood the room. The kitchen is a large room. It takes up most of the lowest floor, with the most modern stoves and a seemingly endless array of copper colored pots and cream cupboards. But right now it seems almost small, with all the people milling around.

"What's going on?" I ask Sae, the cook, when I come downstairs.

"Peeta didn't tell you?" she questions, putting a hand on her hip as she yells across to one of the other girls.

I shake my head.

"Nevermind then. There's a boy down here looking for you. I figured he was some vagrant, but I thought I better ask. Name is Gale?"

"No," I tell her, "I know him. I'll see him."

At this, nearly every girl in the room seems to turn towards me, their busy work abandoned for whatever gossip they are going to take out of my knowing Gale.

"Fine, then," she says, shaking her head. "He's out in the delivery entryway."

I give her a nod of thanks, but she doesn't respond, instead turning toward the stoves and telling all of the workers to keep up their pace.

I have to make my way through a maze of serving hallways before I reach the delivery doorway. But when I open that door and see him, I smile. Gale looks nice in his Sunday clothes and in his hands is a closed basket that's making a sound I have become very well acquainted with.

He holds the mewling basket out towards me. "I found your cat."

I groan. Prim had been waiting for Buttercup to turn up, but I had secretly been hoping he had found another family to annoy. The last thing I needed was to bother Peeta about keeping that dumb cat.

But I take the basket from Gale. "Come on in," I say, motioning towards the large hallway.

"Wow," he says, scanning the marble floors and large columned walls, "this is nice."

"This is nothing," I laugh. "You should see the dining hall."

"Makes you a little sick though, doesn't it?" Gale raises an eyebrow as he turns towards the wall of brightly arranged vegetables and food goods. I shrug, and noticing the peering eyes of a serving boy staring at us. I take Gale's hand and lead him into the wine closet, "Follow me, we can bring Buttercup up to my room."

I make sure to drag him through the back hallways, the ones that even the servants don't use much, as I guide him up to my door, slithering away from the prying eyes of the household staff.

"This is your room?" Gale says with widened eyes as I close the door behind me.

I nod, propping open the lid to Buttercup's basket and watching as the cat quickly skitters away to the far end of the room.

"Yeah, it's nice, isn't it?"

"It's more than nice," Gale says. "Can't believe our Katniss is living here. You're really staying with this Mellark, I guess? In this place?"

"I don't have much of a choice," I tell him, trying to justify the actions he most likely sees as betrayal. "Besides, it's good for Prim."

Gale gives me a halfhearted smile. "Well, I see Buttercup is back in his home. I should probably go. I have to make my mid-day shift." He stands up and smooths out his pants, giving a wave to the cat before turning towards the doorway.

"Wait!" I say, rushing over to the nightstand drawer and pulling out the little pouch of coins I had collected throughout my time here. "Take this."

Gale shoves the pouch back into my hands with a scowl, "I can't take his money, Katniss."

"It's a month of wages, Gale. Don't be too proud to care for your family."

He shakes his head. "I won't take his money. Not when I know what you've done for it."

"This again?" I sneer at him, "Then keep it safe for me, alright?"

He sighs, giving into my pleas. "Fine, Katniss. Have a nice day."

As he turns to go, I reach out for him, catching his arm as the door opens. "Visit me again, alright? I don't think I will be able to get out again to see you in the Seam."

He nods. "I'll come by again. Maybe you could bring Prim out to the park and she could visit with Vick and Rory. They've been whining about not seeing her."

I smile. "That sounds great, Gale." And with that, he is gone.

* * *

It is almost noon by the time Prim comes upstairs to her room and finds the cat waiting for her. She's delighted, of course, but I tell her not to mention the thing to Peeta. I will ask him about keeping Buttercup, seeing as it was me that aided in smuggling the animal into the house.

But I don't get the chance to address the issue with him, because one of the maids comes to my room an hour before dinner.

"Miss Katniss," says one of the older maids, a woman who never seems to have a smile on her face, "Master Peeta needs to see you in his office."

I wrinkle my nose at that. "Can't it wait for dinner?"

She shakes her head. "It is not a request, Miss Katniss. You have to see him in his office. Right now."

I roll my eyes at her as I sit up from the chair. "Fine," I say as she leads me through the hallways, not taking her eye off me until I have cracked open the door to Peeta's office.

"You wanted me?" I peer into the room. Peeta's sitting at his desk, hand on his head as he shuffles through his papers. There's a bottle and a glass of some type of brown liquor beside a couple of heavy books on his desk.

"Yes," he says. "Take a seat. I need to speak to you, Katniss."

I cross through the room and take a seat in one of the stiff chairs beside his desk. "If this is about the cat, I'm sorry I didn't ask you. I'm sure I could arrange for the Hawthornes to take her while I stay here."

"What?" he says, furrowing his eyebrow in confusion.

"The cat," I say. "Prim's cat. He's in her room."

"Oh, that?" he says, "I don't care about that. Prim can keep a cat if she wants. This is about that boy of yours," he pauses, turning away from his work and staring me down in a way that differs so greatly from the intimacy of last night's conversation. Peeta swirls his drink around. "Sae said you had a male visitor. Apparently you brought him upstairs?"

I feel like a misbehaving child standing in front of him now, the ticking clock growing louder in the silence.

I nod. "Yeah, but it was just Gale."

"And you two," he clears his throat, "you took him up to your room?"

I shrug, avoiding the insinuation in his voice. "He wanted to see it?"

Peeta downs the drink in his hand and rubs his temples. "I'm sure," he remarks, almost with a sneer. "Look, Katniss, you are free to do as you please here, but I can't have you _bringing boys up __to your room _in my home."

My face burns with a mixture of fury and embarrassment. He thought Gale and I were _together_, in my bedroom?

I purse my lips in annoyance. "We didn't do anything in your home, Peeta."

"Katniss," Peeta looks at me pointedly, "I'm not stupid. I know your mother hasn't been around, so I guess I have to be the one to have this conversation with you. Tell me, Katniss, what are you doing with this boy? Does he even planning on marrying you?"

"Gale?" I laugh. "It's fine. We're not like that. I'm certainly not trying to _wed _him."

Peeta sighs. "Fine, Katniss, but is this really what you want to do? Sleep with men who have no intention of marrying you? It is your prerogative, no doubt, but this is a cruel world and what are you to do if you get pregnant? Then what? You have the opportunity to make something of yourself, don't waste all of that potential on a man that doesn't even love you."

"Oh," I snap at him, "like you're one to talk, Peeta. There is no doubt in my mind that you're far from a virgin. So don't sit here and talk to me like you're my father. You don't have the right. And for the record, I have never been close to that with Gale. I have never been close to that with any man, but that really isn't your business, is it? And how dare you even go there with me, it isn't your right, even if I am living in your home. What do you think, Peeta? That I'm some Seam whore out there sleeping with every other man?"

With that, I throw him a dirty look and slam the door behind me. _The nerve he __has_, to accuse me of doing those things with Gale, to scold me like I was a petulant child.

Faster than my feet can carry me, I race upstairs, dodging servants along the way as I run up the stairs and tumble into my room, collapsing on the bed and allowing the tears to fall down my face.

But I don't get much time to myself, because not ten minutes in I hear a knock on my door.

"Go away!" I yell, my voice muffled by the tears.

"Katniss," I hear a voice through the door, "it's me, Peeta."

"Go away!" I repeat myself, tossing my body across the bed.

"Please let me in, Katniss," he says, and I hear his body press against the door. "I need to apologize."

I know he won't go away until I let him in, so I begrudgingly stand up and open the door for him. "Come in," I say, motioning towards one of the chairs.

"You're crying," he says meekly. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said those things." He looks like hell. His hair is ruffled and he's missing his jacket and tie. I can almost tell how upset our argument must have made him.

"A cousin of sorts of mine, Finnick Odair, is coming to visit with his fiancee Annie," he says.

Finnick Odair is a regular resident of the society pages. Outrageously attractive, according to the papers, and always with another woman on his arm. I hadn't heard of his engagement from the factory gossip. In fact, I was a little surprised to hear a man like him was even getting married.

"Oh," I say, "that's why everybody is so frantic.

"Yes," he pauses, "but that's not quite it. I'm going to be hosting their wedding here. There were some complications with their marriage, some family issues. They were going to run off to Europe and elope, but I offered to have the wedding here."

I cringed a little at the thought of that many people in this home.

"About Gale," he says. "I have to apologize for my outburst. I let my anger get the best of me. I don't feel comfortable having him in your bedroom, but if he wants to stop by and see you, I won't do anything to stop him. And Katniss," he sighs, "if you're going to sleep with him, and I'm not saying you are, there are things you can do to prevent pregnancy. Make sure you don't end up in a bad situation."

My face burns at the topic of conversation. "We're not—that night last fall," I say, "that was my first kiss, the farthest I have gone with anybody. I'm not going to do anything with Gale. It really isn't like that between us."

"_Oh_," he says, almost sounding hopeful and barely above a whisper.

"Did you really think Gale and I were…?"

"I didn't know what to think," he says. "I spoke too soon, and for that I am sorry. That night last fall," he turns to look at me, "I'm glad it was your first."

"Yeah," I say, not quite catching his gaze, "so am I."

* * *

**Author's Note: Here's another chapter! Let me know what you think in the reviews, and if you ever have a question you can leave it in the review (I try to respond to most of these) or send me an ask at my tumblr page starveinsafety.**

**As always, special thanks to my lovely beta Court for all of her help!**


	9. Kisses

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything but my original words and concepts. All names, characters, and places belong to their respective owners.**

* * *

His eyes flutter towards mine, meeting them briefly before his body leans into the bed. His hand extends to the side of my face, tenderly gripping the side as he leans in to kiss me.

It's my first real kiss, and it's different than I expected, not that I thought too much about kissing anybody, much less Peeta. But as I feel the warm wetness of his lips on mine, as I feel my body stir under the touch of him, I understand why all those girls were so obsessed with the practice.

It's good. Better than good, really.

His hands slide underneath my body as he pushes me up against the headboard. When his tongue slips into my mouth, I don't know quite what to do. It feels...nice, I guess, and so I try to match his movements. It lasts for what seems like hours, his hands roam to parts of my body where no man's hands have ever gone before, his tongue mingling with mine. And then I bring my fingers up to his shirt and undo a couple of buttons. I don't know why I do it, exactly, it's almost instinctual, but I see the look in his eyes when he realizes what I'm doing. The spell is broken.

"Katniss," he says, his voice hoarse and his breaths unsteady. His eyes linger on mine, and it's almost surreal to think of what I was doing with him not too many seconds ago.

He pulls away from me, his legs tumbling upward as he hits the foot of the bed, "You're— I shouldn't have. I should go."

He can't even look at me as he fumbles off of the bed, his legs flying to the door faster than his feet can take him.

It stings, and the second that door closes I find myself letting out a scream of frustration as I throw a decorative pillow against the door and shove my face into the bed. _What had I done? _I had kissed him, the boy— the man who I am living with. I had let him touch me and put his tongue inside of my mouth.

What would my mother have thought, if she had been alive to see that? The thought almost makes me laugh. I can see it my head: her disapproving stare, that tight little expression her face always got when she didn't agree with what I was doing but knew she really had no place to say anything. Oh, what I wouldn't give to see that look on her face just one more time.

I shake my head. I can't think of my mother right now, not when I just spent the past few minutes making out with Peeta Mellark in bed.

* * *

I eat dinner alone. When I ask the maid why nobody else is down for dinner, she simply tells me that Prim has a headache and Peeta is attending to business matters.

I almost leave. Just because Peeta is too much of a coward to face me doesn't mean I should have to eat here all alone. But I face down the empty table, making my way through the endless amounts of food, and then taking Peeta's usual spot at the head of the table. It's a sheer waste of such extravagance, but at least the kitchen staff will have a nice meal of leftovers tonight. The thought certainly makes me feel less guilty as I tear through the array of foods that have been set for me.

As I lie in bed later that night, I try to push the thoughts of the kiss I shared with Peeta out of my brain. It doesn't work though, and I end up tossing and turning until just an hour before the sun rises.

When I wake the next morning, it's already twelve o'clock. The maids must have been too busy earlier in the day, because they let me sleep, only fetching lunch for me when I request it. By the time dinner rolls around I have done absolutely nothing productive all day.

Unfortunately, Prim's sick again this night, and so Peeta and I don't have the buffer I imagine we both desire. Not that we need it; Peeta barely acknowledges me aside from a curt nod and a "Katniss" before returning to the newspaper he barely looks up from to eat.

So instead of focusing on Peeta, or the fact that he kissed me, I turn my interest toward the meal. It's different than the stuff we used to eat in the Seam. Back when my father was alive, he used to trade with some of the old Italian women for their homemade pasta and occasionally a couple of meatballs. Those were on the best days, when he had some pennies to spare and we would dance in the kitchen, our bellies full and satisfied by the rich, homey rich meal.

But this food is different. It has more spices, more fancy green things. Perhaps it is richer, and most likely the ingredients are of better flavor and the pasta fresher, but it just didn't bring back those feelings of satisfaction, those memories of the dish that flooded my brain. In my mind, this is a cheap shiny imitation of the meal that once filled me with hope.

And I wanted the real thing.

There is nothing from stopping me from getting it, not really. Well, nothing aside from the fact that the Seam is a good walk over and I have no coins now that I had given my stash away to Gale.

"Peeta," I say hurriedly, poking the sharp end of my fork lightly into the arm that is grasping the newspaper. "Peeta."

He sets the paper down, almost surprised. "Yes, Katniss?" he says, almost in the tone of a father rather than a man that had stuck his tongue in my mouth out of desire.

"I'm bored."

"You're bored?" he raises an eyebrow at that.

"Well, you obviously want little to do with me and Prim's sick, so I was thinking that I might go walking down to the river…"

He shakes his head, "You can't go walking alone, not at night and certainly not without an escort. How about this, I'll give you some money and you can call on Effie. Perhaps the two of you could go for ice cream or something, how about that?"

It's not that I wanted to take Peeta's money; I didn't, but I needed to get out of here. I certainly wasn't going for ice cream with Effie, but with enough coins I could make my way to the Seam. And really, I owed him so much, what would another dollar do but add to the ever growing debt that was levied against me.

"If that's how you want to get rid of me, who am I to protest?" I laugh a little, not quite bringing up the awkwardness between us.

He sighs and turns his paper completely down, his eyes finally meeting mine. "Look, Katniss, if you want to talk—"

"I don't want to _talk_, Peeta," I snap at him.

He raises his hands up in mock defense. "Fine, fine…" he says, pulling a handful of coins out of his pocket and sliding them across the table.

* * *

I sigh in exasperation as I slam another dresser drawer. Dear god, isn't there _anything _without a four-ton bustle or bright blue silk in my wardrobe? Had nobody thought to purchase me anything sensible?

It's only when I make my way to the bottom drawer of the far end tall dresser that I find what I'm looking for. The brown satin dress is still something I could have never afforded back in the day, but in the dimness of the night nobody would think of it as too grand for the Seam. After all, if I'm going to enjoy the comforts of my home I can't do it the pale green silk gown I'm wearing now.

To my ever growing luck, the dress buttons in the front, and so I'm perfectly able to get myself fixed without needing the assistance of a maid, who would undoubtedly question my choice of attire at this time of day and either gossip to her friends or report me to Peeta.

So once I'm made up, or rather, dressed down, I tuck my coins into my little purse and slip outside of my bedroom. This time, instead of choosing the servants' staircases, which are full of maids and manservants attending to their nightly chores, I slip through the empty grand staircases, which allow me to make my way downstairs without any detection. Once on the ground floor, it isn't hard to find an exit to unlock and not long later I'm standing in the middle of the street.

It's a little windy outside, and I almost wish I had the forethought to bring my cloak. Unfortunately, it would be too much of an effort to retrieve it from my room.

It doesn't take long to hail a cab. Not in this area, at least. But when I tell the cabbie where I want to go, he looks back at me skeptically and asks, "You sure, miss?"

"I'm sure," I tell him. "I'll pay extra, don't worry."

The man shrugs as the carriage starts to move. "Alrighty, but I can only bring you a few blocks over from that address. I don't go that far, no matter how much you pay."

* * *

The short walk is more treacherous than expected. There aren't too many people out, but not shortly after being dropped off I manage to run into a man. His body slams into mine and in the rudest fashion, he doesn't even apologize. He just runs past me, leaving me bent down on the sidewalk with a scrape on my arm and a few tears in my dress. It doesn't help that it seems to grow colder by the minute. By the time I arrive at Gale's door, I can feel the ice sticking to my eyelashes.

I knock gently on the door, hoping not to wake the neighbors. When nobody answers, I knock again.

"Look Marv, I don't have the money. Come back to tomorrow and I can get you half!" I hear a voice shout through the door.

"It's not Marv," I say, rubbing my arms against my dress to try to keep them warm, "it's Katniss."

At that, the door props open slightly and Hazelle stands before me, one hand on her hip and the other keeping the door still partially closed. Past the aging woman's body, I can see Gale playing on the worn wooden floors with his little sister, his face red with laughter as he throws Posy into the air, the sound of her laughter flooding the room.

"Come on in," Hazelle says to me, almost begrudgingly.

Gale's gaze turns stony when he sees me enter the room, his face hardening as he sets Posy down and turns to stare at me.

"Your boy kick you out?" he asks, his face nodding towards the ugly red gash on the side of my arm. And I see how it must look. The tears in my dress, the lack of cloak, the fact that I'm covered in dirt and marks.

I shake my head. "I just wanted to come by. I had to get out of there."

Gale seems to accept that, even if he doesn't quite believe me.

"Wait, Hazelle, I have something for you," I say, reaching into the pocket of my dress and grabbing for my purse. And then I feel it: there's no weight there or the smooth coolness of coins, only a gaping hole that I can more than push my finger though. Somebody had stolen my money. _Peeta's money._

I almost cry.

"What now?" says Hazelle.

"I was going to," my voice tightens up, "I was going to—and then I was pickpocketed and oh, I can't walk back tonight alone. I don't have the money for cab fare."

Hazelle's face softens, "Oh honey, I wish I could give you some of that money you handed to Gale, but I paid this month's rent with it. How about this? You sit down and have a meal with us, sleep in Gale's bed tonight. In the morning he'll walk you over to that grand place you're staying in. No need to fret."

I look over to Gale, my eyes widening at the realization that he had used the money. Things must be really tight for them.

"Thanks, Hazelle," I smile at the woman. We have helped each other out for years and this really is no different. "Just let me help with the wash, all right?"

* * *

Gale's body is closely nestled beside me as we try to fit ourselves inside of his tiny straw bed. His "room" is secluded from his mom and other siblings, a tucked-away alcove fitted inside one of the odd spaces that really had no purpose. The walls are a brownish color, with remnants of peeling white paint that flakes down on us as we try to get to sleep. Really, it's barely enough room for one person of Gale's size, but I'm not one to complain. I'd slept here with him before, just after mom had died, and we had made do. I am lucky enough that I'm not lying in the cold streets, not that this apartment is much warmer.

I sleep rather peacefully, despite the cool air that seeps through the poorly constructed walls and the cramped stiffness of Gale's body beside me.

I awake when I feel Gale's body shift from mine. Not thinking much of it, I curl back into the bed, the tiredness overwhelming my body as I fall back into bed. And then I hear it. There's a loud, sharp hammering sound coming from across the Hawthornes' little apartment. Somebody's pounding on the door.

It must be a creditor, I think. Or that Irish loudmouth, off again about Gale sleeping with his girl.

But it's not. And I know it the second I hear _his _voice, the angry footsteps of more than one man and the furious shouts that come to follow.

"I'm here for Katniss," the voice demands, stony and unwavering.

"You can't just take her," Gale says, and I can feel the heat rising in his voice, "And have some respect. Keep your voice low. My family is sleeping."

When I hear him speak, I just know something is going to start, so I pull myself from the draw of the bed and unsteadily rise on my feet, peeking ever so slightly out of the entryway to get a grip on the situation.

Gale's fists are drawn tight, that's the first thing I notice. I can see it in him, the heat, the anger. The need to protect me. It's bubbling inside of him, but I know he won't make the first strike. Not when his family is sleeping next door.

Not when Peeta's here with two tall men, guards I recognize from his security team. They stand just past the threshold, Peeta and his men. The guards are stony-faced, their eyes trained on Gale, the possible 'threat' to their master. Gale is tall, and strong too. But even he's outnumbered at the moment.

"I do enough scrubbing as it is," I hear Hazelle's voice emerge as the door to the other room squeaks open and her worn body stumbles out. She's still dressed in the raggedy nightgown she wears to bed, and little Posy is hiding behind her skirts, a curious face peeking out at the commotion. "I don't want to be cleaning up any blood off these floors, you hear me? Now, Katniss, come on out of there," Gale's mother motions towards me, exposing my hiding position and forcing me to take a step out into full view.

"_Mother_," Gale says pointedly. "It's Katniss, he wants to take her."

"Katniss can take care of herself," Hazelle retorts. "She's not about to do anything she doesn't want to. Now don't do anything stupid. Let the man take her home."

Peeta's eyes widen when he sees me, his jaw lowering and his lips puckering outward as he takes note of my appearance. I can't tell if he's about to burst into tears or destroy everything in his path, but I know how it looks, me emerging from Gale's room in the wee hours of the morning. The front part of my dress is unbuttoned, one brown satin side folded over, exposing the lacy white fabric of my underclothes.

"What's happening to Katniss, Momma?"

"Hush, Posy." Gale drops his broad stance and sighs in his sister's direction."They're taking her back to her new home. Now go back to bed."

The little girl bursts towards me, her rosy little curls fluttering as she drops the finger from her mouth and flies towards me, wide hands gripping the side of my dress.

"I don't want Katniss to go," she whines, her tiny body attaching itself to my leg. "What if I never get to see her again?"

Peeta crouches down, shooing his men backward. "Don't worry, you'll get to see her and Prim again. Maybe next time Katniss will bring you a ribbon for your hair or a pretty little doll with red hair just like yours."

Gale snaps, "_Don't talk to my __sister_." His glance lowers towards Peeta. "Take Katniss and go. My family is none of your concern."

"Still not fucking him?" Peeta hisses to me as he places a hand on my shoulder, pushing my body out of the Hawthornes' apartment and leading me to the staircase.

"Screw you," I bite back at him, shooting him an equally bitter look.

He just sighs at me, his hand drawing tighter against me as we enter the street. It almost feels like he's scared I'm going to run. Not that I don't think of dashing when I see the look on his face.

Pushing away his aiding hands, I step into the carriage,

Wordlessly, Peeta hands me his jacket, shoving it into my hands. When I look up at him, hesitant and searching for answers, his only response is a gruff, "You looked cold."

* * *

**Author's Note: THEY KISSEEEEDDD! Let me know what you think in the reviews below, and as always, thank you to my lovely beta Court for helping make this story what it is!**

**You can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety. Look under the "inspiration" or "all was golden in the sky" tag for some of the dresses and costumes used in this story.**


	10. Scotch

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Hunger Games universe. All characters, names, and places belong to their respective owners.**

* * *

We're alone in the carriage. Peeta sits across from me, but he doesn't make any move to speak to me, doesn't berate me about visiting Gale or running to the Seam. He just sits there with an almost disappointed look on his face.

"I didn't mean to make you worry," I say, just barely looking up at him.

His voice is steady, reserved, "I don't want to hear it, Katniss, not again. What you do with other men is your business, and your business alone. You're right; I'm not your husband and I'm certainly not your father. Just make sure he pulls out. Hell, I'll buy you rubbers."

Heat rises through me, but at the same time I'm not angry because this, this I can make sense of. Peeta Mellark is not a saint, and it's evident in the way he speaks to me. Callous, crude, bitter...I can understand that.

"So it's okay when you do it," I prompt him, "but not when he does it? Is that right?"

His eyes linger on mine, the unspoken hanging between us.

"Those are completely different situations, Katniss," he looks downward, adjusting back into the carriage seat. "Whatever I have done with you, it isn't nearly the same thing as you running off with that, that boy…"

I stare at him. "Whatever you've done with me? Good grief, you kissed me, Peeta."

As soon as the words leave my mouth I know there is no going back. No pretending like his lips hadn't touched mine, like he hadn't wrapped his arms around my body and touched me in my bed.

"Katniss—" he starts.

"No, Peeta," I say, "you kissed me."

"You know what, Katniss, you're right. I kissed you. I acted inappropriately towards you and I regret it. I forgot our places and I'm sorry, it won't happen again. But that is hardly comparable to you disappearing with no notice or forewarning to see a factory boy in the dead of night. So yes, I apologize for the way I behaved, but I would never—it simply isn't the same."

"How so? I would say your actions were far worse. _You _touched me, _you_ kissed me. He lay beside me ten feet away from his younger siblings."

"You could have been killed, Katniss!" he exclaims, avoiding the bulk of my statement.

"I'm not a fragile flower, Peeta," I snap at him. "I have made it this far out on my own and I most certainly don't need you to protect me from the big bad wolf."

It's a lie. I had made it this far out, but only due to Peeta's help. Without his bread and his generosity, Prim and I would likely both be dead.

"I am not attempting to take away—" he runs his hands through his hair in frustration, "You know what, I give up. There is absolutely nothing I can say that will quell your nature. Perhaps all of this, it was a mistake. After all, you are a thief..."

It feels like he has struck me the way his words fall over me. He is trying to hurt me. For him to bring up _that _now? For him to say that he regrets bringing me in?

"Katniss, I didn't mean—" a panicked, regretful, look floods his face

"Don't speak to me," I say, my words thick with anger. "We're almost there, just please, Peeta—"

* * *

The house is dead silent when we arrive. Peeta doesn't touch me like he usually does, doesn't offer to help me up the stairs or guide me through the door.

We make our way through the house without talking. My anger fades into something more like discomfort as I walk beside him, my head turned away so I won't catch his glance.

"You going to bed?" I ask, in some part to break the silence, as we both head towards the hallway.

He nearly bumps into a mahogany side table when he hears my voice, "No, Katniss," he says softly, "I don't think I can sleep right about now. You should get some sleep, though, unless you want to join me for a drink."

"I'm not thirsty."

Peeta laughs. "That wasn't the type of drink I was offering."

My eyes widen. _Oh. _

"Well?" he asks as we pass by his office. "The offer stands."

"I haven't forgiven you," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. His eyes drift towards me, and I'm suddenly aware of the fact that two of my front buttons are still undone.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me, Katniss," he sighs, "I'm just asking if you want a drink."

"Fine," I tell him, pushing my hand against his chest and gliding through the half-opened door. "I'll have a drink."

* * *

The liquor is absolutely horrid. The taste borders on revolting, something equivalent to charred leather, and it burns my throat as I down it. Why on earth people do so much for this liquid, I don't know.

"Scotch," Peeta says with a nod. "You'll get used to it."

I blanch. "I don't think I am ever going to drink this again."

"You'd be surprised." He pauses. "I was going to show you this later," he says, taking another swig, "but no reason not to give it to you now."

"What?" I ask him, taking a cautious sip of the liquor. It doesn't burn much less this time, but now that I know what to expect it passes easier.

"Why don't you slow down there," Peeta says, eyeing me. "You'll regret that in the morning if you don't, trust me there."

"Why should I trust you?" I down the rest of my drink. "You don't trust me."

"Katniss—" he says, reaching down underneath his desk, "don't start, just come...look at this."

I stand up and look over towards him. I can just barely feel the affect of the alcohol running through me, the rush of liquor pouring into my bloodstream.

"Here," Peeta says, handing me a painting and motioning for me to sit back down, "look at it."

The painting is not terribly large, maybe a foot in height and width. The frame is a dark wood, beautifully carved with an assortment of flowers. But the frame isn't important, because the painting is a portrait—a rendition of a young woman, a beautiful girl about my age dressed in white. The woman's blonde hair is pulled back under a straw hat with a large black bow, and there's a little gold thing adorning her neck. She's younger, prettier, less worn, but I still recognize her.

_My mother. _

"How," I ask, "how did you…?"

"Look at the engraving on the back of the frame," he says, "I found it when I was sorting through some things."

The original engraving, which must have been my mother's maiden name, has been scratched out and somebody has crudely carved one word in the frame's wood: Everdeen.

"There was a letter tucked in the frame as well," Peeta says. "A letter by my father, unsent."

"A letter," I question, "to my mother?" I had always known my mother had grown up well-off, but she never really spoken of the Mellark Family.

"I found it a while ago. It was a love letter, written to her after she had wed your father. It seems your mother and my father were promised to be married at one point."

My mother and Peeta's father were almost married, that close? The thought is ludicrous, to think that my own mother was almost a Mellark.

"Our parents…" I trail off, because what can really be said about knowing each other's parents have surely kissed. It's shocking, to know that my own mother and his father were some type of lovers, friends at least. I can't imagine it, not from the woman I knew or the girl she used to be. "Are you certain," I question, "_my_ mother?"

Peeta nods, as if he knows what I'm thinking, "Yes," he pauses, "It's odd, isn't it, that they lost each other so many years ago, and now, here we are. Fate is a strange mistress."

I don't think it is fate as much as the fact that we grew up in the same city and happened to run across each other on that night so long ago, but I don't tell Peeta that.

"We shouldn't fight, Katniss," he says, rubbing his temples. "I know you say there is nothing between you and Gale, but if you wish to be with him, if that's what you think will make you happy for the time being or, when you get older, for forever, I have no place to say anything."

"I'm not in love with Gale," I sigh.

"No," he stops me, "it doesn't matter. I have no right to you. I was cruel and presumptive and I never meant those things I said. I _love_ having you and Prim here. The two of you have offered so much to my life. So please, don't take what I said in haste to heart."

I laugh. I don't know quite why, or where it comes from, but I laugh.

"I think the drinks are starting to set in," Peeta gives me a wry smile as he steps up from his chair. "Come on, I'll bring you up to your room."

* * *

I wake with a headache. So this is what everybody has always carried on about when they've talked about being hungover.

It's not that painful, though; not anything worse than the sharpness that used to fill my head after working a fourteen-hour shift in a hot, loud, overcrowded factory.

I lie alone in bed for a few hours, not wanting to wake my sister and lacking anything real to do with my morning. None of the servants bother me; nobody does. That is, until I hear a steady knocking on my door.

"Are you up?" a voice says, accompanying the now quieter knocks. It's Peeta. What he wants from me at this hour I don't know.

"I'm awake," I call out, sitting up a little in bed.

He doesn't bother to ask me if I'm decent, doesn't seem to be scandalized by the fact that I'm still in my nightgown. Though I suppose we're both past that point.

"You didn't come down to breakfast," he says, closing the door behind him. "The first-time liquor getting to you?"

I nod wordlessly, groaning into my pillow.

Peeta laughs. "You really didn't have that much to drink. A few glasses of scotch isn't enough to kill a man, don't worry. You haven't seen the worst of it, trust me."

His hand presses against the end of my bed. "How about I make last night up to you, bring you out?" He raises a questioning eyebrow. "Might be the last chance we get for a while. Some of the wedding guests will be arriving tonight, should be here by three. It's a shame Prim still isn't well."

"I think I might visit with her tonight," I say. "I barely saw her yesterday."

My sister is still bedridden, contained to her room. She has mostly slept the past few days, so I haven't bothered her.

Peeta blanches. "You really shouldn't," he says. "I'm thinking whatever she has might be contagious. One of my doctors, a Mr. Beetee, is coming

"You think it might be something more?" I ask, my heart quickening, "Do you think it's serious?"

Peeta bites his lip. "I'm not a doctor, Katniss. I can't speak to that, but I wouldn't worry. Mr. Beetee is the finest in the city. He will know what to do. For the time being, though, I am going to close up the connecting door between your rooms."

I pull myself from underneath the covers and shift towards the end of the bed. My sister is the only thing I really have left. My father is gone, my mother too. I am not going to be the last Everdeen standing. I couldn't survive it. Without Prim, I have no purpose.

"Please," Peeta says, his hand reaching for mine, "trust me. Don't worry just yet."

His thumb rubs against the sensitive center of my palm's, brushing back and forth from the start of my fingers to the end of my wrist.

"Fine," I say, pulling my hand away, "give me some time to get dressed."

* * *

"So," Peeta says as we stand outside of the mansion's gates, "what do you want to do?"

"What," I ask mockingly, "you don't have a plan?"

"None at all," he smirks, looking outwards towards the park. "Would like me to call for the carriage?" He pauses cautiously. "I can even bring you to the Seam, if you want?"

I shake my head. I like this, just the two of us and the city.

This part of Manhattan is so different from the Seam, with the clean stone buildings, electric lighting, and elaborate, sturdy street signs. Everything about here is fresh and green and beautiful, a little paradise so separate from the slums with which it shares an island.

"Well," he says, leaning back against the walled post, "that rules out Coney Island. We could always go to the Met? Rivals the museums of Europe. A truly splendid collection of bronze age and Roman pieces. I do think you really would enjoy it."

I shrug, the velvet bow on my collar flapping in the breeze. "I don't know all that much about this part of town," I admit, feeling somewhat guilty. Prim would love spend a day at the Met or the Natural History museum, or wherever Peeta would take her if she wasn't ill.

"Hmm," he pauses, "would you settle on taking a stroll along the park? We can buy some street food along the way, maybe pick up a trinket for your sister?"

"That sounds fine," I say, standing a little straighter and taking the arm he extends to me. It feels nice to touch him, though I'm not sure why, to feel his steady arm wrapped around mine.

We walk aimlessly along the park, ignoring the birds and the people, and just...wandering. The weather isn't too cold and the sun beams brightly above us. It's nice. I even find myself leaning against him as we walk, my head nestling against his body. If he thinks it inappropriate, he doesn't do anything to stop me.

"I lied last night," he says, out of nowhere, as we reach the other side of the abnormally quiet street.

I pause, thankful for the lack of foot traffic, and pull my head from his shoulder. What exactly does he mean—he lied last night? He had already apologized for wishing he had never taken me in; what more could there be to say?

"When I said I regretted kissing you." His voice is firm, providing the explanation I never even asked for. "It was inappropriate and I acted wrongly against you," he sighs, "but I don't regret it…I don't regret you."

I look away from him, because how am I supposed to respond to _that_?

He deflates a little against me, his arm loosening, "You don't have to say anything. I know you're young, and I don't wish to make you uncomfortable or pressure you, but I can't pretend like I don't, like I don't…"

I bite my lip, wordlessly begging him not to continue. I don't want him to say whatever he's going to say. It's too uncomfortable, to think about him wanting me in some way, not when everything about it seems to sicken him.

Peeta shakes his head, dismissing the thought. "Never mind," he says, dropping his arm from mine.

* * *

The rest of our outing is awkward, at least for me. Peeta does what he does best: he pretends as if those words never left his mouth, covers my silence with pretty words and presents for my sister.

I—or rather Peeta—buy Prim all sorts of odd items. A pale blue silk handkerchief, a tiny doll with blonde hair and eyes that move, even a miniature tea set. There was a point where I might have stopped him from purchasing these things, but by now I owe him so much that penny treats aren't going to add all too much to the pile.

After meandering throughout the park for hours, we are both exhausted. I expect this of Peeta, a man who has never been without, but me, I never have trouble walking through the city. I wonder for a moment if I have gone soft. If so many weeks of not standing on my feet all day, of being pampered with soapy baths and pink satin dressing gowns has caused me to lose stamina. Or maybe it's just the fancy shoes, tight and small and overly buttoned. As soon as my feet start to cramp I want to head back, but Peeta insists on stopping for a moment, taking a seat on one of the wet, snow—covered benches in the park.

"I really don't need to rest," I tell him as I sit down on the opposite end of the wrought iron bench. "I'm fine."

Peeta shakes his head. "We will catch a cab on the way back, no sense in not taking a break. Here," he says, pushing something from his pocket into my hand, "I had something made for you."

It's a box; little and wooden, covered in a pink and green floral paper and lined with little bits of amber velvet and lace flowers. Pretty, certainly, but not particularly special in a home like Peeta's. My sister had made at least ten of these since we came.

But nevertheless, I thank Peeta, offering him a curt remark about its usefulness.

"That's not the gift." He laughs. "You have to open it."

With that, I pop open the lid, hoping that whatever is inside the box didn't cost him too much.

It's a simple gold locket, custom work but not new like I would have expected. There are little marks on the front, signs of wear, and yet there are new engravings. Primroses and what must be Katniss flowers are carved around a little etching of a bird. When I open it, I nearly gasp. There's a little painting of my father's picture on one side, and Prim and and my mother, most likely based on the oil found in the attic, on the other.

"Oh Peeta," I say, "It's beautiful. Did you paint it?"

His mouth widens in a smile. "I did, I thought you might want to have a memento of your family. Don't touch it too much though. It isn't quite dry."

There's something about the way he looks at me in that moment, the way his eyes linger on mine, that makes me want to reach up and kiss him. But I manage some self-control and instead, in an attempt to show my gratitude, I push the clasp open and try to put the necklace on. When I fail miserably, he offers to do the honors, gathering back my hair and sliding his hands against my neck.

"There you go," he says as he fixes the clasp. "Now let's head back, get fixed up. I want to introduce you to my guests."

* * *

**Author's Note: This story is almost hitting 250 reviews, guys! Thanks for all the love and support, sorry for the delayed chapter. Let me know what you thought in the comments below.**

**Big thanks to my lovely beta Court for getting this out so quickly. And as always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety and everlarkfanfictionclub. You can submit prompts to everlarkfanfictionprompts!**


	11. Parcheesi

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Hunger Games series. All names, characters, and places belong to their respective owners. I only own my original content.**

* * *

The ride back to the house is filled with mindless chatter, one of Peeta's specialties. We sit beside each other in the small cab, my head leaning against his shoulder as he rambles on about the details of the wedding.

Finnick's family, I learn, doesn't approve of the match. Annie, his bride, is from lowly means, and as a way of preventing the marriage, the Odairs have refused to sponsor any of the matrimonial events.

"Her father was a fisherman or a dockworker," Peeta shrugs, "or something like that, I think."

"Oh?" I question, leaning into Peeta. "They would miss their son's wedding over that?"

I can't help but think of myself, of my position in society. It's a ludicrous thought, but I wonder what people would think if Peeta married a woman like me, who is even lower than the daughter of a dockworker or fisherman.

"Well, it isn't his parents," Peeta explains. "They are long dead. Luckily his grandfather, Fentress Odair Sr., who holds the family purse strings, doesn't care much. Fentress himself was an immigrant, a fisherman back in Greece, but it seems the rest of them have forgotten their roots. They're all in quite a tizzy over the thing, and it isn't just her poor birth. You must never repeat this, but when Annie was younger she had a stint in the sanitorium."

"But she's...better now?"

Peeta nods."She's perfectly fine, from what I can tell, and Finnick has helped with that."

"And you approve of the match, I assume?" I ask, lifting my head up a little. "You are hosting the wedding, after all."

He loops his arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer. "I think she makes Finnick incredibly happy, and happiness, love, shouldn't be abandoned in some attempt to placate society. The Odairs are just trying to pretend they're old money. Effie says they ought to just hold their mouths and come to the wedding. It makes people talk when you start drama like this. You know," he shakes his head, "they tried to have them barred from marrying in the family church. Imagine that."

My eyes widen at the thought. Not approving of a match is one thing, but trying to keep a couple from their church is another. Church seems to be different among the moneyed, though; the association serving as a status symbol, a marker of where you belong.

"They tried." Peeta sighs, "But that is beside it all, we are hosting the ceremony at home. It is more fashionable anyways. Though that reminds me, I'm expected for the Sunday sermon at Trinity Church."

Trinity Church is a large Episcopalian church, fashionable among old money from what I can gather in the papers. I'd never been inside myself, but I know it owns some of the tenement buildings out in the Seam.

"I was thinking," Peeta pauses, "that you might want to attend with me this coming Sunday, but I don't know where you stand on that sort of thing."

I shrug. "That would be fine."

My mother had been Episcopalian, having come from decent money, but after my father died, she refused to attend Sunday service. She wouldn't even go to the mass my father used to bring us to, though I suppose she didn't leave the house all that much anyways.

"Great," he says, brightening as the cabbie slows to a halt in front of the house, "now come on, I think we both need to get ready."

* * *

As soon as we get back home, I'm quickly whisked away by Lavinia, a red-headed maid not much older than me. The dress she stuffs me into is an elegant blue and cream striped thing with a giant bustle and silk blue lining. It's fine, but not overly frilly—no adornments apart from the burgundy satin bow that ties around my neck.

Lavinia is still tying the bow when Effie bursts into the room. Her hair is slightly array, loose strands brushing against the bright pink satin of her off the shoulder, flower-adorned evening gown.

"Oh, come along. Hurry, dear," she says to me, bouncing through the room. "_Mr. Odair_ is waiting in the parlor and Peeta wishes to introduce you."

"Sure." I say, trying to contain my laughter. She looks like the fairy floss they sell along the park, big and puffy and sickeningly sweet. The back of the gown trails at least five feet behind her, covered in a light pink gauze and gathered with oversized silk flowers. I wonder who exactly she is trying to impress with this thing.

Effie pauses, pushing the loose strands of hair back into her bun and eyeing me curiously. "You look nice," she says, surveying my attire. "I don't think anybody would think of that awful place you came from at first glance, poor dear."

"Thank you," I say dryly, "that's very kind of you."

Effie gives me an almost genuine smile as she takes my hand and leads me into the hallway. "Oh Katniss," she says with a sigh, "I have to say you aren't as much trouble as we all expected. I swear, when Peeta first brought you here," she pauses for a moment, leaning in, "_I thought he was...congressing with you. _But your sister is quite sweet and I'm sure you both will make fine ladies one day. I am at my wits end with the boy, though, between facilitating this affair with Finnick Odair and dealing with that family of his, I swear, my dear…"

Effie places a hand on my shoulder as we reach the doorway to the formal parlor. "Now," she smiles down at me, "go on in. I need to make sure nobody messes up tonight's dinner."

* * *

The decorations have been cleared from the parlor, and what remains of the room is far more stoic than the green and gold room that I remember.

Peeta and the man sitting across from him don't notice me at first, my quiet steps allowing me to slip in unannounced. He's beautiful, the man, in a very overt way, and I know immediately he must be Finnick Odair. The papers haven't done him justice. His hair is a sort of golden reddish color, pretty in its own right, but his eyes are what really captures a person. They're green in an almost blue kind of way, bright and dazzling like I imagine the ocean would be.

"Oh, Katniss," Peeta says, standing up as he takes notice of me, "this is Finnick." Peeta smiles, taking my hand and sitting me beside him."He's the friend of mine that is getting married."

I give Finnick a tiny nod of acknowledgement. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Finnick beams, knocking back a sip of what I can only assume is most certainly not tea. "The pleasure is all mine, Miss Everdeen." He hiccups. "I have to say you're a breath of fresh air compared to goddamned Glimmer Carnegie. Though we will both be writhing in pain tonight, considering she is invited—or rather, has invited herself to dinner."

My eyes widen at that; the last thing I expected was for Glimmer Carnegie of all people to join us for dinner. Though she must be as insufferable as I imagine her if even Finnick Odair doesn't enjoy her company.

"Finnick," Peeta chides, placing a steadying arm around his friend, "don't be rude around the lady. I apologize," he says, giving me a tightened smile, "I'm afraid the man had a bit too much to drink. Perhaps we should all clean up for dinner," he says with a sigh. "I think Finn is going to need a bath."

* * *

The deep lavender dress they put me in is spectacular. Richly colored and lined with crystals, it is something of beauty, even I can admit that. That beauty, however, comes with the misfortune of being awfully heavy and absolutely frustrating to wear.

But I don't mind wearing it, not when I see Peeta's head falling backing back in laughter as I catch sight of the girl who I know had previously held his affections.

Glimmer Carnegie is exactly like I expected her to be. Her voice is obnoxiously high and light, and every word she says seems to be affected with a fake little tinkering laugh. She's pretty though, just like the papers said, and Peeta seems to enjoy her company, the way he smiles at her and places his hand on her arm.

She stiffens when she sees me, and lets out a little huff of surprise as I enter through the doorway. "This is your _ward_, Peeta?" she questions, turning towards him.

"Yes," Peeta replies tactfully, catching my eyes for the smallest second, "this is Katniss."

"And the other one," Glimmer says, not even bothering to address me, "the younger girl, will she be joining us?"

Peeta shakes his head. "Primrose is still ill, I'm afraid. Isn't that right, Katniss?"

I nod, sitting down on one of the stiffer chairs. "Yes, my sister is unwell."

Glimmer's hand goes to her chest as she sits beside Peeta on the settee. "Oh dear," she says, dotting her eyes with her handkerchief, "that is just awful. I do hope she feels better soon."

"Thank you," I say with a tight nod, and just as soon, Glimmer turns back towards Peeta and prattles on about her recent stay in Boston. With nobody else but me to witness her behavior, Glimmer is overt in her affections with Peeta. It is a little much, and I almost roll my eyes when I catch her "accidentally" touching his chest. She behaves like the factory girls do when the navy men come to visit, laughing and flirting and twirling the curls of her hair.

I'm saved from watching her carry on with Peeta by the arrival of Finnick and Cinna, a French designer who has come straight from Paris.

Cinna, Peeta explains to me, designed quite a few of my dresses, as well as Annie's wedding gown. The conversation from that point on is mostly chatter about people I don't know and places I've never been. Despite Peeta's attempts to fill me in on the topics at hand, I mostly feel lost. I'm not much of a talker anyways, so it doesn't really matter anyways.

Glimmer practically foams at the mouth when Peeta escorts me to the table. I'm surprised she doesn't burst when I'm seated beside him.

"Well," Peeta says with a smile as the table is set with a creamy onion soup, "I have to say I am happy to be here tonight with all of you. Just think, it won't be long before our very own Finnick is married!"

Polite smiles pass around the table and Effie pipes up, "Oh, Mr. Odair, I've had the most delightful time working on this wedding. Hopefully next time it will be Peeta's I get to arrange."

Finnick smiles. "Indeed, indeed. I will die of shock when our poor chap finally manages to keep a girl."

Glimmer laughs it's the funniest thing she's ever heard and turns to me. "I think any woman would be lucky to keep Mr. Mellark, isn't that right, Katniss?"

I narrow my eyes at her and dryly reply, "I think you would know more about that than me, Glimmer, having not been all so lucky in that department."

A fork clatters to the floor and I think Finnick chuckles. "Oh, Katniss," Peeta scolds lightly, but his eyes twinkle, his face sporting an insufferable little grin as he takes a sip of his soup. Holding my ground, I narrow my chin at him and scowl, unfortunately it only makes his smile grow wider.

But it's Effie, who doesn't seem all that aware of the tension, that speaks up, "I think Peeta is a fine catch for any young lady, but my discussing his virtues would make for horrible dinner conversation. Do tell, Cinna dear, how has fashion progressed since my last visit to France?"

It irks me how obvious Glimmer is with Peeta. I don't know how she isn't embarrassed to act like that in front of him, though more than anything I wonder how it worked before. Did Peeta, who is so kind and good and giving, really find himself attracted to _her_, of all people?

"So Miss Katniss," Glimmer asks, the corners of her lips turning up, "what does your family do, exactly?"

From the corner of my eye I notice that Effie's eyes are tightened, a little frown gracing her lips. She's paused her conversation with Cinna, and has now narrowed in on Glimmer.

"Katniss and her sister are orphans," Peeta answers, swiftly avoiding the question.

"Ah yes," Glimmer takes a sip of champagne from the crystal glass, "Peeta always has been a very charitable man, it's what we all," her face contracts, "_love _about him. You are very young now, so I must remind you, dear, that you must be very appreciative of the opportunities that others have given you."

I tighten my jaw, fighting off the retort that sits on the tip of my tongue. If this was any other woman, if I was in the factory or not in Peeta's dining room, I'd probably slap her, but the last thing I want to do is embarrass Peeta, so I keep my mouth shut and restrain myself from diving across the table.

"Of course," I say flatly, taking a sip of my previously untouched glass of wine, "Peeta is a wonderful man. He is an excellent brother to my sister, and _so much more _to me."

Finnick snorts at that, "Peeta is quite a man, we all know—can somebody pass the wine?"

* * *

The rest of the dinner is uneventful. While Glimmer opts to stare at me the entire evening, Peeta barely looks at me, his gaze dropping every time we accidentally interact.

By the time I go upstairs for bed, my old room, as well as Prim's, has been closed up and my things have been moved to another hallway, to a room directly beside Peeta's suite.

I'm not surprised when I have trouble sleeping. Yet again I'm in a completely foreign bed, once again away from my sister. When I think of Prim lying there in that room, sick and so far away from me, I have to hold back my tears. I can't lose her; I'd have nothing left, not with my father and mother dead.

At the very least, I'm thankful that I am here in Peeta's home, with a man who is willing and able to pay for a good doctor. Prim will be cared for, I know as much.

The cost, however, will be great on Peeta's part. And I'll owe him in the deepest way if he saves her, if she really is sick. Shoes, dresses, even bread is one thing, but fancy doctors and medications are another. I would be beholden to him forever, and how could I ever say no to him if he gives me her life? And it doesn't matter if those things aren't really mine or Prim's to receive, because when Peeta's doctor arrives I will be completely consenting to the expense. When it comes to Prim, I'll always be selfish.

I try to go to sleep a bit, force myself to bed, but it isn't long before I wake up in a cold sweat, screaming over images of my sister dying.

I mill around for a while. It is too early for any of the main floor lamps to be turned on, but the ones downstairs are up and running, so there is just enough light to make out where I'm going. I turn into little rooms and parlors, careful not to invade any of the guest bedrooms, and survey them from the darkness. I must walk aimlessly for at least half an hour before I hear his voice.

"You making a run for it?"

I jump.

"_Peeta_," I hiss, turning around to see his shadowy frame in the doorway, "what are you doing?"

The lights in his bedroom aren't turned on; I must have woken him, though I didn't think I was making all that much noise.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly, turning my eyes away from him. "I couldn't sleep."

"I know," he says, swallowing, "I heard you...I thought I might wake you up, but I didn't know if you would think that appropriate. Come on," he nods towards his room, "you can join me in my room. I'm sure we will find some way to occupy the night."

I flush at the words, at the thought of him, though I know he doesn't intend for his comment to come out with _that _implication.

"Fine." I shrug, accepting the invitation and stepping through the doorway. Peeta's hand gently encloses my back as she shuts the door behind us and switches the light on.

"Sit," he says, motioning towards the familiar sitting room chairs.

Curling my legs up into the plush gingham- covered chair, I take a seat across from him, the thin white fabric of my nightgown bunching over the seat.

"You have nightmares?" he asks, briefly glancing up at me as he sets the box on the table. "I'm sorry…should I not ask that?"

I cross my arms over my chest. "No," I tell him, "it's fine."

"I have them too sometimes," he says, pushing the loose swoop of his hair backwards, "but not like that." He looks downward. "I don't scream."

I curl tighter into the chair. "Oh," I say, because what reason could Peeta Mellark, of all people, have for nightmares? "I'm sorry for waking you."

He shakes his head. "I was just lying in bed anyways. Here, it's Parcheesi," he says, putting the colorful pieces on the table, "you—"

"I know how to play Parcheesi," I snap, leaning forward over the table. "We have games in the Seam too, you know?"

Peeta turns bright red, the flush meeting his ears. "Uh, your," he stutters, waving his hand in my direction, "your...nightgown."

"Oh!" I gasp, pulling the top of the gown close to my chest with the realization that I exposed myself to him by leaning over. _Great_, I think, _another thing to be mortified over._

But it's not all bad, there's something exciting—if not embarrassing—about him seeing me like that. Though that in itself is a foolish thought to have, Peeta had made it perfectly clear he didn't try to think of me in that way.

"So," I ask him as he hands me the green pieces with a smile, "are you and Glimmer Carnegie…?"

Peeta raises his eyebrows as she shakes his dice. "No," he says, tossing them onto the board, "we aren't betrothed or beaus or anything like that."

"I didn't ask if you were betrothed," I say pointedly.

"Ah!" Peeta says with realization, and a little shock. He laughs, "I think that's a bit personal."

I scoff at him, "Well, you certainly seemed comfortable asking if I was doing the same with Gale."

Peeta's fingers brush with mine as he places the dice in my hand. "Fair enough," he says with a self-deprecating lilt, "but no, it has been some time for me in that regard."

"Well," I say to him, "maybe you should then. Glimmer certainly doesn't seem like she would object to the notion."

Peeta pauses, brushing his hair back. "Do you really think that, Katniss? That I ought to have a brush with Glimmer Carnegie? Because I certainly didn't get the feeling that you appreciated her all that much over dinner."

"Well," I snort, "there isn't all that much to appreciate. If you want to bed her, what reason do I have to deny you the _pleasure_ of knowing her?"

"You don't like her," he chuckles, moving his pieces across the board. "I think that much is obvious."

"It's nothing against her, per se," I bite my lip, "but my opinion of you certainly has lowered since I discovered the type of woman you enjoy."

He shakes his head, rolling his eyes ever so slightly as he advances his first piece into the center. "Fine, Katniss."

I scoff, rolling the dice. "Why are you so pissy?"

Peeta's head snaps up, voice raised and just the slightest bit angry. "Because I like _you_, Katniss!" he says, throwing his hands up. "You!"

* * *

**Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait, guys! Hope you enjoyed Peeta's confession? What do you think Katniss will do next? As always, thanks to my lovely beta Court for all her help with this chapter!**

**You can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety and everlarkfanfictionclub. I post a lot of visual inspiration on there as well as my weheartit.**

**Historical Note: Fairy Floss (aka Cotton Candy) didn't really become a thing until the 1904 World Fair, but I liked the comparison so I decided to run with it. Trinity Church is indeed a real NYC church. It's a prime example of architecture and in reality own many tenement buildings. Traditionally, Trinity Church as well as St. Bartholomew's were wealthy "WASP" type places. Feel free to check it out in preparation for an upcoming scene.**


	12. Doctors

**Disclaimer: All names, characters, and places belong to their respective owners. I only own my original content and ideas.**

* * *

Peeta's head snaps up, voice raised and just the slightest bit angry. "Because I like _you_, Katniss!" he says, throwing his hands up. "You!"

My body reacts before my mind does, and I'm running out the room, past the door and into the dark empty hallway.

"Katniss—" Peeta calls out, his hand extending towards me as I dash to the door. Our fingers touch for the briefest second before I release them, pushing him and the door away. My skirts catch in the hallway, and I curse under my breath as I stumble, accidentally biting my tongue. But despite the fall, I continue to run, my feet pushing into the plush carpet faster than they have ever moved before.

The rug burns my feet as I move and I'm aware of the blood sharp on my tongue, but I don't stop. Where? Where to go? The Seam, of course. I'm at the stairs before I remember the guards, before I remember how very trapped I am. I back away at the first step, panting, then turn on my heel, and take off again down the other hallway. My new room is far too close to Peeta, far too close to everything I'm running away from, so I collapse into the first room I see. It's a guest bedroom, a dim empty room with sheet-covered furniture and an unmade bed.

I pull one of the coverings off of an armoire, wrap myself in thin, white fabric that does little to fight the cold. There are no burning fires on this side of the house, and I'm reminded of my days in the Seam, of long nights spent huddled up in the cold with Prim.

I'm also reminded of how generous Peeta has been with me, how little he has asked of me. I'm reminded that he has never forced himself on me, never propositioned me or asked for more than I would give.

Does he mean to trick me? To lure me into his bed with platitudes and promises? I doubt it. Peeta is different than most of the men I have encountered. Perhaps that is why he said those things; he meant to make his intentions known to me, to give me the option of how to respond.

Even Peeta knows that, despite my protests, I would do anything for my sister. If he asked it of me, I would give him anything—my body is no exception.

But he has never demanded anything from me, and that's what makes it all the worse. How much easier would it be for me to hate him, to wish him dead. At least then, I would never be in jeopardy of wanting him.

* * *

I wake to the sound of shuffling boots and slamming doors. Light seeps through the curtains of the room I have tucked myself away in, the morning sun casting bright banners against my face. I'm freezing, I realize, as I pull the sheet closer to my body. New York winters are nothing to laugh at, I suppose.

I peek out the door first, relieved to find only the staff mingling about. I figure the last thing I need is to see any of Peeta's guests while wearing nothing but my nightgown. Not that I want any of the serving staff to see me like this either.

As soon as the moment arises, I dash from my hiding spot, sheet and all, and run through the hallway to the other side of the house. I barely notice where my new room is. I just rush past the door and slam it behind me. I must know the layout of this house better than I thought. I wonder if it will feel like home at the end of six months, or if I will be sorry to leave.

But as I slam the door shut behind me, I notice I am not alone. It's Peeta. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed Peeta. Peeta, who had given Prim everything she ever wanted, who had never asked for anything in return. Peeta who I have spent the last few waking hours hiding from.

"You're in my room?" I ask. Then I notice what is in his hand—it's the locket he gave me, the one with the pictures of my family tucked into it. I must have taken it off last night before I turned in for bed. "You looked through my stuff?"

"Oh," he says, eyes widening. "I thought you…ran."

"Y-you thought I left?" I ask, accusatory, even though it's a pretty fair assumption.

He shrugs. His voice is hollow. "I mean, I just figured…"

"I wouldn't leave Prim," I tell him. "Not over that."

His hand goes to my back and then pulls away. "I figured when I saw the locket. I thought if nothing else you would take it with you, I hoped that you didn't hate me that much—even if you would leave Prim for her own good."

"Peeta, I don't—"

"No—Sorry," he stammers. "Last night, what I said, I never meant to impose on you and I—"

I wrap the sheet tighter around my shoulders and shake my head. "How are, uh, the preparations for the wedding going?" I ask, eager to change the subject.

Peeta almost laughs. "Is that how you want to approach this conversation? I suppose that is you, if nothing else. Fine. The wedding is going well. Some of the guests will be arriving today. The doctor is here, actually. The one for Prim." He rubs his hand across his forehead, "That's why I was looking for you so early in the day."

"The doctor's here?" I ask, mirroring his words. I hadn't expected the man to come so soon, we had only discussed the issue the other day.

"He arrived early into the morning hours. He has been with Prim for some time, actually."

"Well," I say, wrapping the sheet tighter around my body, "I have to get dressed. Obviously."

"Oh," he says, averting his eyes and shoving his hands in his pockets. "Of course, sorry. I will leave."

Peeta gives me a half hearted smile before turning towards the door and closing it behind him. It is awkward, being in the same room with him, talking with him, after last night. I wonder if he feels the same way, if the thought of what he said to me put knots in his stomach.

I look through my closet for something simple, it has been a while since I have picked out my own clothes. What an odd thing to think about, the fact that here I don't even select what I wear each morning. I decided on a fine woolen grey skirt and a fitted red plaid shirt with puffed sleeves and gold buttons. It is certainly a lot brighter than anything I would wear in the Seam, but practical enough nonetheless.

When I turn out of my room, Peeta is there waiting for me. He is leaning against the wall, sketching in one of the small notebooks he has a tendency to carry around.

"Hey," I say as I close the door behind me. "I'm ready."

"Great," he says, shutting the notebook and swallowing heavily. "Dr. Beetee should be in the hallway of Prim's room. I told him to wait for me."

His hand reaches for mine, almost as if on instinct, but he drops it to his side before touching me. We walk in silence, two paces apart from each other to the opposite side of the floor where my old room was.

The doctor, Beetee, is bent over a series of papers at a little metal station of bottles and medical supplies when we walk into the hallway. He is nothing like I expect him to be, not refined or precocious like any of the prestigious doctors I have seen, nor benevolent and grandfatherly like the volunteer physicians that used to come to the Seam. An odd, fidgety fellow of maybe forty, he's a little strange.

"Beetee," Peeta says jovially as we walk in. He's casual with the man, even with Prim's condition on the line. I wonder if they are family friends, or perhaps it is just Peeta's generally friendly nature. Lord knows he was more than friendly with Glimmer Carnegie last night.

"You are the sister, right?" the doctor says, barely looking up from his papers. "You don't look so much like her, half siblings I presume?"

"No," I cross my arms, pulling away from Peeta, "we're full blood relations."

The man adjusts his glasses and looks up. "Well, genetics are temperous things. My name is Dr. Beetee. I just attended to your sister. You are a friend of our Peet—"

"What do you think it is?" I ask, cutting him off. "I apologize; I don't have time for platitudes."

"My bet is Typhoid," he says, rubbing at his glasses with a cloth. "I will have to run more tests. The girl has been sick for such a short amount of time that I am quite surprised to see her so ill."

"Will she...survive?" I ask, narrowing in on the doctor.

Dr. Beetee sighs, running his hand across his head. "I can't say for certain," he pauses. "Most patients receiving adequate medical care, especially adolescents, survive. However, there is a fairly reasonable chance that things can go wrong, and there is, of course, the issue of malnutrition."

Peeta's voice is hoarse, almost desperate when he speaks. "Malnutrition?"

"Yes," Dr. Beetee explains, "she does seem to be recovering in that regard, but the lingering effects are still there. It is a factor for concern moving forward."

My heart tightens. If only I had done better by her, if I had worked harder or tried to...maybe today she wouldn't be there, locked up and alone.

"Well," Dr. Beetee says, gathering his things, "I am going to head down to my office and collect some supplies. I will select nurses to care for the girl in the meantime. Please wish Annie and Finnick my best, alright?"

"Thank you, Doctor," Peeta nods. "We can discuss options later."

As soon as Dr. Beetee turns the corner I collapse against the hallway wall and burst into tears. Prim is everything I have.I can't lose her, and certainly not because of my own actions.

Peeta slumps down beside me, a hand cautiously covering over my shoulder. But I turn into his body, my head resting in his chest as I unravel. There is something about the tears, the crying, that makes him comforting me not awkward. Something about Prim that unifies us, even after the events of last night.

"I want to go in there with her," I say as I wipe the tears from my face. For a moment I stand up towards the quarantine door—but then Peeta grabs me, his hand locking around my wrist.

"No, Katniss," he says firmly, "You know you can't—I can't allow that."

I shake free of his wrist. "Typhoid isn't even that contagious," I say. "And so what if it is?"

"We have to cut out risks. If it is something else happens, if you get sick?" He shakes his head. "No."

"You can't tell me what to do, Peeta." I snap at him, "Not when it comes to my sister. You taking us in, it hasn't made you her father or brother. _I _take care of Prim."

"You aren't going in there," he says firmly, ignoring the bulk of my statement. "I am not going to allow you to be reckless in a moment of despair. Now follow me. We will freshen up for the morning meal and help prepare for the wedding. It will keep your mind off things."

"If she dies, I will have nothing."

Peeta places his hands around my waist. "I know, Katniss. But if she gets better and you get sick? What then, Katniss?"

* * *

Peeta's hand is gripped around mine the entire way to my room. He even waits outside my door as I freshen up, smooth the lines of the grey skirt, and fix the buttons on my fitted plaid shirt.

"I'm not going to go into her room," I say as I catch him outside of my door. "I just...I worry about her, okay?"

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks as we turn down the main staircase. His hands steady my waist as I falter a little, and in a shameful moment I wonder what it would be like to have him touch me elsewhere once more.

I shake my head. "I'm good," I say. "Don't worry."

"Well," he says as we turn into the dining room. "If you ever need me, I'm here."

The dining rooms looks less ostentatious when it is set up for breakfast. It's odd, though, to have other people eating with us. I have become used to spending my mornings sitting here with Peeta, and perhaps Effie. I suppose, however, that I am thankful to not be alone with him today.

I sit down on Peeta's right, taking the seat across from Finnick, who is blatantly hungover.

The redheaded groom's tired voice fills the dining room. "I swear, my head feels like it is going to going to explode. I had way too much—"

"Finnick!" Effie cries. "Not around the girl. Katniss is barely seventeen. Please don't introduce her to your poor drinking habits. Katniss, dear," she says, turning towards me, "if you wish, I can introduce you to the ladies at the women's league. We have all been doing some lovely work with the temperance movement."

"I have to agree with Effie," Cinna states as he takes a roll. "That certainly is not something anybody wants to emulate."

"Ah, yes," says Glimmer, who unfortunately woke up early this morning. "We wouldn't want to ruin poor Katniss."

"Effie," Peeta smiles as he butters one of the muffins, "I hardly think Finnick's poor choices are going to sway young Katniss towards the drink. If anything, they will only deter her."

I scowl at Effie's mention of my age, even more so at Peeta's calling me 'young.' Wasn't it he last night who said those things to me, who made me an offer of bed? If I am so young and childish, why did he touch me and kiss me those nights ago?

"Yes, Katniss," Effie brightens. "Take Finnick's state as an example. The impropriety of his actions should influence you to strive past his mistakes."

"Of course, Effie." I give a forced smile. I think back on the drink I shared with Peeta not too long ago. I wonder if that's what he thinks of as Effie tells me not to drink. She worries about Finnick, but it is Peeta who is the real influence on poor young me. I wonder what Effie would think if she knew about the other things we had done together, if she would view me as the whore she thought me to be originally.

"You are a lovely girl, Katniss." She smiles. "I think that if you stick with your education it will not be long before you can find a lovely young man to marry

Peeta cuts her off. "Oh, Effie. Which of the wedding guests are arriving this afternoon?"

"None," Effie says, sniffing. "The train from Boston was delayed. They are all arriving tomorrow, on a Sunday! I swear, nobody can do anything properly these days."

"Effie," Finnick snorts, "it snowed. Are you blaming God for this calamity?"

"Oh, Finnick," Effie sighs. "Don't imply such things. I am merely commiserating the fact that _your _last minute wedding guests will be arriving so soon. I think you more than anybody agree that timing is key when it comes to this event, right?"

Glimmer stifles a giggle at her comment, and there must be something I am missing, because Effie's words seem to shut Finnick right up. He just rolls his eyes and goes back to staring at the combination of steak and eggs on his plate.

* * *

For the duration of breakfast I am able to forget Prim's situation. But by the time we are shuffled out of the dining room and into the parlor, I am nearing a breakdown.

"Excuse me," I say, voice hoarse as Glimmer takes a seat at the piano. "I am not feeling too well. I think I am going to head back up to my room."

"Oh," Glimmer says. "At least give us one song? Come on, it will make you feel better."

"Yes, Katniss," Cinna adds in, a little twinkle in his eyes. "It will take your mind off of things."

I glance over to Peeta, who is chatting with Finnick, completely removed from the conversation the rest of us are having.

"I don't play the piano," I say, shrugging towards the door. "I think I am just going to head out."

Glimmers bats her eyes. "I am sure you aren't all that terrible, but if you don't want to sing in front of people, that is perfectly understandable. At least stay to listen to one of my songs. Please, Katniss?"

There is something about the smug look of triumph on her face that makes me give in. Mostly the look just makes me want to slap her, but more than anything else it makes me want to show her up.

"Fine," I say, nodding towards Cinna and Effie. "I'll sing. Glimmer, do you know the _Meadow Song_ by any chance?"

"No," she sniffs. "Is there sheet music?"

I shake my head. "It isn't that kind of song," I say," but it's fine if you don't know it. I can sing without music."

My father had a voice that stilled the songs of birds and machines alike. He was known in the Seam for his clear strong voice. Mine isn't as beautiful as his was, but I certainly inherited the trait from him. I haven't sang all that much since he was gone, but I figure I still have it. A voice isn't one of those things you lose so easily - not when it comes naturally.

I bite my lips and turn my eyes towards the ceiling.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when again they open, the sun will rise._

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_

_A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray_

_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay_

_And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

_Here is the place where I love you._

"Oh, Katniss," Peeta says as I come to a halt. "That...that was amazing."

I flush as I turn down and look at the crowd gathered around the piano. I had barely noticed that I was singing; it had come naturally.

"Yes, Katniss," Cinna adds. "That was phenomenal."

Effie nods in agreement. "You should sing at the wedding," she says, looking pointedly at Finnick. "It would be a great addition to the event."

"I don't," I falter, "I don't usually sing in public."

"Well, I think you did wonderfully," Finnick says, lifting his head up. "Isn't she just lovely, Glimmer?"

Glimmer looks sour as she gives a tightened smile. "Of course," she says, "spectacular. Talent always does come from the most unexpected of places."

"I am going to head up to bed," I stammer, feeling awkward at the praise—and even more so at the look Peeta is giving me. "I need to lie down."

* * *

With a slam of the door, I collapse into my bed. I am glad in that moment for the simple outfit I put on this morning. The grey skirt and fitted shirt don't catch on the bedspread or tear with minimal movement,like the rest of my wardrobe.

And then the tears come. I haven't cried so much in years, not even when my mother died. But Prim is my stumbling block, and even the threat of losing her is more than I can bear. It isn't long before I'm screaming into my pillow, raw and tired. So I do the only thing I can to escape the pain: I draw myself into the covers and force myself to sleep. It comes easier than expected, easier than it has the last couple of nights, at least. But I'm thankful for the rest, thankful for the reprieve from my sorrow.

I sleep well into the day. By the time I wake up, it is already getting dark outside. I sit there for a few hours in my bed, not thinking of much—just sitting, curled up in the blankets of my bed.

I am almost debating going downstairs and getting a bite from the kitchen when Peeta knocks on my door.

"I brought you dinner," he says, rolling the cart in as an explanation. "I didn't want you to miss out on a meal because you weren't...feeling well." He runs a hand through his locks, pausing at the entrance to my room.

"One of the maids could have done that," I say. "You don't have to take time out of the wedding or work or whatever you do to bring that to me."

"I know," he sighs, "but I wanted to."

"Well, thanks." I stare at him.

"Everybody is worried about you," he says. leaning against the door frame. "We were all wondering how you were doing."

"Thanks, Peeta," I say dismissively. "You can leave the food there. I'll eat later."

Peeta bites his lip and turns out of the room with a nod, closing the door behind him.

He's not ugly or unkind. I could do worse. And how much better off am I than those girls that used to go to Cray, who were forced to give their bodies for nothing more than pennies.

I think about it as I finish the meal, a hot bowl of that lamb stew we had not too long ago and a couple of bread rolls. I think about what it would be like to _be _with Peeta. I don't think I'd mind it. I had enjoyed kissing him, after all, and you're supposed to like it, if not the first time. The girls in the factory had liked it, even if older women had called it a duty. Peeta is handsome, after all, and experienced as well. I wonder for a moment if Glimmer Carnegie enjoyed it with him in that way.

I shake my head, clearing my thoughts of Glimmer. What did it matter what Glimmer did with Peeta? After all, I have no right to him.

But if Peeta wanted me in that way the best I could do was give it to him.

The hallway is dead silent, all of the servants in bed or working in the kitchen as usual. I'm lucky, then, that there are no witnesses to spot me slipping into his bedroom. No witnesses to see me moving towards where he sleeps. Nobody to judge me for what I am willing to do.

Pulling back the heavy covers, I slip into the overwhelming bed. The sheets are cooler than I expect, a stiff cotton so unlike the silky ones that sit on my bed, but the bed is domineering in the way I'd expect of a man like him, the mattress firm and maybe twice the size of mine.

He turns as I fold back the covers, hair rumpled and half-asleep. "Hey, Katniss," he says raggedly, rubbing his eyes. "Do you need…"

I reach for his jaw in response, falling into the bed and pushing my lips against his.

"Oh." He pulls away for the slightest moment, almost in surprise. I hesitate this time, my widened lips hovering tentatively over his. But then he falls into the kiss, his hands grasping at my waist, pulling me onto his chest. "Oh, God," he murmurs, lips pressed against my neck. My hair falls into my face as we tumble together, strands sticking to my cheeks as his body pushes against mine. Peeta doesn't seem to mind, doesn't seem to notice anything other than me, his hands desperately wrapping around my body and then—

"Katniss," he breathes with the shake of his head, suddenly moving away from me. A wide-eyed look stares up at me from under the dimmed light from the streets, "What are you doing…?"

"Don't you—" I reach for another kiss. "Don't you want me?"

* * *

**Author's Note: First piece adapted from Chapter 13 of Catching Fire. Yay! We're finally getting to the good bits. Let me know what you thought in the comments below! What do you think Peeta will do? Will he reject her or give in?**

**Thanks a million times over to my beta Court who has been an enormous blessing to this story. You should check out her story Start Me Up for some sexy racing everlark goodness.**

**If you want, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety and everlarkfanfictionclub. For some spoilers, check out my inspiration tag for All Was Golden in the Sky!**


	13. Rain

**Disclaimer: All names, characters, and places belong to their respective owners. I only own my original content and creations. This chapter isn't child appropriate, so be prepared for that.**

* * *

"What do you mean," he asks, turning his head slightly. "Of course I _want _you. That isn't my question. Why are you here? What do _you _want?"

He braces his body above me in anticipation for my answer, but I merely shrug and make another attempt for his lips.

He stops me, his hand running along my collar bone. "Katniss," his face draws a blank, "are you…?"

"Please," I say, glancing downward. "I just want to…"

His reply is stilted, his look quizzical. "W-want to what?"

I pull my hand from under his grasp and cross it over my chest. "Just," I bite my lip, too uncomfortable to explain my motivations, "_you know_, Peeta."

At that, the serious demeanor falls and he chuckles, cocking an eyebrow and taking a moment to stare at me.

"Are you laughing at me?" I say, scowling with a flush of anger. "Because if you don't want me, I-I can leave." I shake my head, pushing the shoulder of my nightgown up and moving to sit up. "I'm sorry—this whole thing was a mistake."

He pulls at my hand, drawing me downward again. "Hey," he says with a grin, running a finger along the edge of my cheek. "I'm just teasing. I won't protest whatever your poor heart desires from me."

"I—" I start, but he just shakes his head and pushes me further into the bed, his hands grasping at my hips and pulling my body upward. And once again our lips join. These kisses in the dark seem to carry less consequence than they would in the light; something about the stillness of night makes it easier for me to come to terms with what I am about to do.

His fingers tug at the top of my nightgown, his warm hands slipping underneath the fabric and pulsating against the coldness of my skin. His eyes flit upward in a search for permission, a soft smile on his lips, before cupping my breast in his hand.

"Oh god," he says breathily against my neck. It's a little uncomfortable to have a man touching me so intimately, but there's also something...sensational about it, if not directly pleasurable. There's not much between us now, just thin sleep shifts, and it isn't hard for me to sense what my body is doing to his.

"Can you close the curtains?" I ask, suddenly aware of the streetlight peeking into the room.

"Oh," he says, a little flustered as he pushes upward. "Yeah, sure." He reaches down off the bed and pads across the room to the window before returning to the bed.

Now it's unbearably uncomfortable, with the silence and him no longer touching me, but I am thankful for the lack of light. I don't think I will be able to do this if I have to look at him.

My eyes adjust slightly and I can see the outline of his body hovering on the side of the bed, his breaths uneven as he turns towards me. He slides his hand into mine as he reaches over the bed, the broadness of him collapsing beside me and pulling me under him.

"I never thought you'd…" he trails off, pressing a kiss against the underside of my wrist. "Nevermind that," he says. "All that matter is you're here."

In the deadness of night, the tips of his fingers trace along my body, moving from my wrist to my shoulder to my clavicle. I wonder what he's doing, for a moment. It's a little frustrating, the movements so painfully slow. Why can't he just kiss me again?

And then his lips touch me. Not on my own lips, but rather the skin of my neck; it's something, anyways. His lips playfully nip at my throat before moving on to the tops of my breasts. The broadness of Peeta's body hovers over me, carefully braced against the mattress. My eyes flutter shut as his hands knot in my hair, our bodies rocking in some sort of rhythm as his mouth presses against my collarbone, his kisses migrating lower and lower down my body.

My feet press into the sides of his legs as he touches me, his hands sliding down against me, fingers gathering my nightgown and pushing it up to my thighs.

"Can I?" he asks, a little breathless, his hands stilling against the lacy edge.

"It's fine," I tell him, buckling in response so that he can slip the piece of fabric over my head. I'm aware then, topless and so close to him, about how vulnerable I am in this moment.

His eyes take me in for a moment, the little bit of streetlight that has leeched into the bedchamber glinting off his irises. I lie before him, my chest bare. His fingers play absentmindedly with the hem of my knee-length knickers, as if he is unable to ask. I feel impatient at his hesitance, because I want them off—need them off. Because then I'll be naked, and this will be over soon enough. So with a frustrated whine, I pull them down by my waist and kick them off my body.

He throws back his head in laughter before popping under the sheets. I cross my arms over my chest in an instinctive attempt to cover myself, but Peeta's own hand moves upward, pulling mine away.

"No," he says as he pushes downward again, leaving a kiss on my navel. And then I feel his fingers slip between the bareness of my legs.

"This is fine, right?" he asks me, his voice is hushed and low against my neck, as if he has to seek permission. "I'm not...going too fast?"

"No, it's fine," I say, taking in a sharp inhale as a finger slips inside of me. The feeling is not overwhelming, but there's a dull, almost tempting pleasure to it. And I can't help but think of what it will feel like with him inside of me.

His eyes widen a little as my body bucks up against his chest. Though the mechanics are mostly the same, him touching me is ten times greater than anything I did while bored at home.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says, just above a whisper, before drawing his hands away from me and using them to pull my own above my head. His hands pin mine to the edge of the headboard, just momentarily, before his head dives below the sheets and I find his mouth on me.

"Oh!" I say, gasping a little in shock. I had heard of this act from the hushed giggles of factory girls, but I hadn't expect for him to do such a thing. "_Oh_," I whimper again. It's more pleasurable than I might have expected, even if the act itself seems a little revolting. His tongue presses against the core of my body, moving swiftly and steadily in a rhythm that seems to light up the entirety of my body. It's when he slips a finger inside of me, just barely, that I have to bite into my hand in an attempt to avoid making any noise.

"You don't have to do that," he breathes, pausing for a moment. "It's a big house," he chuckles a little, "so nobody will hear us."

I shake my head, cheeks flushing at his suggestion

Peeta just smiles, his head slipping back between my thighs. This time, his hand slips upward to my breast, his fingers pressing into my skin as if they are in sync with his tongue. The feeling builds through my body, release only coming as I cry out, the sounds not quite muffled by my hand.

Peeta lets out a sigh, laughing as he shifts upward, his chin resting between my breasts. It's one of those breathy exuberant laughs, the type one might have after winning a race. Triumphant, almost.

We lie there for a moment, each waiting for the other to say something. The collective sounds of city carriages and trains are only a momentary distraction to focus on. Without the haziness of the kissing and touching, the reality of the situation rings clear. This was supposed to be about Peeta, about pleasing him.

And so, after a deep breath I close my eyes and reach across to him, placing my hand over the edge of his shift. He jerks a little at the surprise of my touch. I know he is hard; I can feel him under my fingers—the loose bedclothes offer little protection—but I'm not sure what to do with that information. "I don't know what to do," I admit, a little pathetically, in a whined whisper.

"Oh, you don't have to do anything, then. I can...figure things out on my own."

"Maybe if you just stuck it inside of me now," I flush, "that would work out best."

A sudden coughing fit seizes him. "I'm sorry, what?" he chokes out, reaching across to the nightstand for a glass of water.

"I mean," I say, a little lower this time, "that is what I came for."

"Oh," Peeta says, his voice blank. "Isn't that a little…"

"A little what?" I ask.

"Soon?" he shrugs. "I don't want you to—"

"Stop talking," I breathe, rolling over to the other side of the bed and shutting him up with the press of my lips to his. I finally get to give in to all those little urges I suppressed, the ones that had told me to reach out and kiss him...there is no point in that any more, not after what he had just done to me.

Kissing is different, I learn, when you're bare and so close to a man. I can feel every part of him as we tumble through the bed, my now bare body entwined with his limbs. Most acutely, I feel the hardness of him pressed between my legs as he pulls me under him, his hands tangling in my hair. There's something tempting about our position that makes me want to just take him with no heed or warning.

"Please," I say, whimpering against him, my body yearning for the feeling he gave me with his tongue not too long ago. "Now."

His heavy breaths beat against me. "You sure?" he asks, the bridge between his eyebrows narrowing.

"I'm sure," I affirm, for what must be at least the tenth time tonight. "I know what I'm doing," I reach up to nip at his neck, "_Peeta._"

He sighs against my collar and in haste I pull at the edge of his shift, desperate to feel something more than dull, pulsating pleasure.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, his voice cracking as he rests above me.

The first contact of skin is shocking and I draw in a breath as I feel him against me. I have never even felt a man's _thing_ before, much less had it press between my legs.

"Hi," I say shyly as he stares down at me, my brazenness from earlier nowhere to be found now.

"Hi," he says back at me with a quick kiss to the forehead.

"Should I have worn something pretty?" I ask, suddenly thinking of the pretty, ruffled corsets and sheer, lacy nightgowns that rest in the bottom drawer of my dresser.

"No," he laughs. "You're here. This is good."

"You'll be gentle, right?" I breathe against his neck, reaching down to grasp his hand. "This is my first time."

"Your first time? Then why—" he shakes his head. "Katniss, if you want me to stop, I won't hold it against you."

"No, I want this," I insist, my voice quivering in my assertion.

"You want me?" he asks, head cocked to the side, and I'm not sure whether it's a question or a statement.

I nod in response, drawing in a breath as his fingers reach below, absentmindedly tapping at my thigh. "We aren't wed…" he says with a pause.

"I've noticed," I snort.

He sighs. "I don't know if that matters to you."

"It doesn't," I shake my head. "I'm not saving myself for anyone."

"Maybe you….should." His lips curl upward in a frown. "Maybe someday, years from now, you will look at a man and love him and wish this night never happened. I don't think I could live with that."

"No." I pull my head upward and kiss him, desperate. "Please, Peeta. I want it to be you."

His face softens into a smile, his eyes alight. "Okay," he says a little dumbly. "You know I could never deny you," he says, reaching across the bed with a swoop and pulling something out from the nightstand.

"What's that?" I ask, unable to make out what he retrieved from the cover of darkness.

"A rubber," he says, ripping at some kind of packaging. "For protection."

"Oh," I reply, biting my lip. Rubber condoms aren't discussed much, even in the factories. The girls I worked with wouldn't use them; after all, they are mostly for the rich. With the laws restricting their sale and a cost of half a dollar, nobody in the Seam uses them. But I suppose for Peeta, cost meant little, and the price of a rubber is far cheaper than a child or disease. "You keep them in your nightstand?"

He runs his fingers through his hair as he pulls his body over into the bed. "Yeah," he says, a little sheepishly.

I squirm at the implication, at the thought of him having rubbers so easily on hand. He said it had been a while, but really, for all I know he was attempting to protect my sensibilities. Other men of his status have different women running to their room every night.

My thoughts are interrupted as he positions himself against me, the edges of our bodies gliding against each other as we lie there together. His hands brace against the side of my ribcage as he enters me just barely.

"That alright?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

It's a little uncomfortable, the intrusion, but I nod anyways. "It's fine," I tell him, "you can…" I drift off.

He nods, pressing a light kiss to my forehead and pushing in deeper. He's slow, gentle as can be, but it is more painful this time. Not sharp like a cut or feverish-like illness, but overfilling and uncomfortable.

"Hey," he says softly, his eyes meeting mine. "You have to breathe a little. It will make it better."

I huff at him in annoyance and he laughs. "Yes," he says, grinning, "just like that."

Somewhere in between his movements I stop noticing the pain and focus on the pleasure. It's a tight, knotting feeling, not quite as intense as when he did it with my mouth, but there nonetheless.

I don't feel release this time, but that hardly matters, as Peeta finds pleasure in the act. His hands press against the bed as he thrusts inside of me, his open mouth wavering as he moans my name. His eyes screw shut as he reaches climax, a look of pure adoration on his face as he collapses against me, his breath heavy with an almost laugh.

It is the most wonderful feeling in the world, even better than what he did to me with his mouth, to know that I am responsible for his joy. Even if a million other girls could have produced the same result, there is still something heavenly about it, knowing that it is is his skin and sweat pressed against mine, that he, and no other, has been so intimate with me.

After it's over, I pull my nightgown back on and we both roll to our respective sides of the bed. I debate leaving for a moment, slipping back into my room and spending the night there. But I can't think of a way to get up without him noticing, and any kind of action is daunting, so I just lie there, staring up at the blackness of the ceiling and not daring to be near to my bed companion.

"Did you enjoy it?" I ask him, my voice shaky, desperate for confirmation that I have given him _something_, anything in return.

He doesn't respond for a moment, and I think he is asleep until I hear him start. "I felt delirious, being inside of you. And I—" he stops himself, sighing.

"What?" I ask.

He draws near me, his fingers wrapping around my waist. "No," he says, burrowing his head into my neck, "I shouldn't say it. _It will only scare you off. _We should both go to sleep, talk about this in the morning."

* * *

**Author's Note: Thank you for waiting patiently! Sorry it took so long, I struggled with the "vibe" for this story. Big kudos to my beta Court for supporting me and helping me figure out how to work this one out. The next chapter is mostly written, barring any significant edits I should have it wrapped in a week or so.**

**What did you think? What did Peeta want to tell Katniss? Let me know in the comment section below, and don't forget to kudos/favorite/follow/blah.**

**And now, for some promotional spam... As always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety, everlarkfanfictionclub, and girlonfirerecs. If you haven't already, check out my other Victorian era fic, Forever Lies Beyond the Tracks**


	14. Scones

**Disclaimer: All names, characters, and places belong to their respective owners. I only own my original content and creations. Big thanks to my beta Court for all her help with this story!**

* * *

It's the sunlight peeking through the window that causes me to stir. My heart seizes for a moment as I take I take in the linens, which most certainly aren't mine, before remembering whose bed I occupied last night. I flush at the thought and at the soreness between my legs.

"Oh," says a voice, as I yawn and rub my eyes, "you're up. Good morning."

It's Peeta Mellark...and he's as naked as the day he was born. Wet, too, his hair slicked back with water and his skin glistening ever so slightly.

"You're naked!" I exclaim, my eyes widening at the sight of him.

"Well, yes." His forehead wrinkles as he look down at himself. "I just got out of the bath."

"Shouldn't you dress, then?" I ask, crinkling my nose. I pull the bed sheets closer to my body as I sit up. I'm suddenly thankful I bothered to put my nightgown on last night, thankful that I'm not exposed in front of him. Because even now my body clenches at the thought of him.

"I will in a minute," he says, almost befuddled. At the crease of my forehead he grins. "I don't mind if you look," he says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Nothing you haven't seen before."

My face blanches with embarrassment at the thought of what we did last night. "It's different," I insist, "you weren't so…"

Peeta just laughs, a smug smile plastered on his face as he reaches into his dresser and takes out a pair of trousers. I can't help but admire him as he turns around, though I'm quick to avert my eyes when he looks back at me.

"Before I put these on," he says, hanging the black dress pants over his arm, "what's the chance I can convince you to let me join you in bed?"

As I open my mouth to reply, he shakes his head. "Nevermind that," he says with a soft smile. "Even if the thought of it makes me want to spend the whole day wrapped up in those sheets with youI don't think I want to miss church on that account. Something makes me doubt God would find the excuse all that valid."

I bite my lip, not sure if I'm thankful for the out or disappointed. "What time is it?" I ask as he steps into the trousers.

"Can't be too late," he says with a shrug. "The serving girl hasn't come to give me the hour warning."

I sigh in relief. "Good," I say, looking towards the door, "I should be able to sneak back into my room without anybody noticing, then."

"You live with me," he says dismissively. "People already talk…"

I freeze at that, recalling Effie's words from earlier. "What have they said?"

"I got jostled by some friends about you being here. Pretty young girl under my care, you know how it looks. Though I suppose it is what it looks like, in one way or another."

"Oh." I bite my lips and pull my hair from where it has stuck underneath the collar of my nightgown. I knew people would assume things about us, that much was obvious, but I hadn't expected anybody short of Effie to bring it up directly. "Everybody thinks I'm _your whore_, then. Or knows, rather."

He tilts his head in my direction, reaching down to press a kiss against my collarbone. "You're not my whore, Katniss. And besides, it doesn't matter what people think."

I squirm under his touch. "Of course you'd say that," I scoff. "You're a man, wealthy one at that. It's different for me, and I have Prim to think about. I can't have her knowing that I did this…"

"No," he interjects, scratching his head. "You're right. Prim shouldn't hear about this, and she won't. We'll be discreet, so nobody will know any differently." He sighs a little. "I really wanted to spend some more time with you, talk a bit, but maybe you're right. Maybe it is best to head back to your room for now."

I nod once in agreement, allowing him to 'help' me out of the bed, though he seems more interested in touching me than anything else. His hands wrap around the thin fabric of gown at my hips, idle fingers tapping against bare bits of skin as we pad to the door of his room, his hands resting along my body.

As his hand wraps around the brass doorknob, he kisses my forehead. "Don't worry too much. Nobody will know any differently, I promise. And hell, Annie and Finnick are pregnant. Everybody in the city is going to be too occupied gossiping about them to worry about us."

My eyes shoot wide at that. "Annie's pregnant?" I ask, pausing in the doorway for longer than is probably safe. Something about the information disappoints me, though it explains a lot of things, mainly why Finnick Odair of all people is marrying a girl like Annie.

He nods, a gentle, assuming smile on his lips. "We'll talk on the ride there," he says, dismissing me. But as I turn to walk away, he catches the edge of my lacy sleeve and stops. "And Katniss," he adds in a sing-songy voice, a grin spreading across his face, "I had a wonderful time last night."

* * *

The doorknob to my room is stuck a little, but with a few seconds of jolting and a momentary panic that I'm going to have to run back to Peeta's room and hide, I manage to unlatch the door and return to the safety of my assigned room.

This room, being closest to Peeta's, is a lot larger than the first one I was given. Less homey, certainly, but more ostentatious. The colors are richer as well, less childlike and more suited to the 'woman' I have become. _Does sharing a man's bed even make you a woman?_ Several of the girls from the factory had professed that, but girls far younger than me sold themselves on the street every day, and last night didn't make me feel any older than caring for my sister or working in the factory did.

I strip my nightgown off and toss it onto the top of the dresser, taking a moment to examine myself in front of the long floor-to-ceiling mirror that hangs on the wall. Back in the Seam we only had a hand mirror, something of my mother's that we had to put up for rent money more than once. Even now I find it unfathomable that a random guest room has such subtle luxuries like these. It's so odd to stand naked in front of such a priceless item, in such a priceless room, with Peeta Mellark's marks pressed all over my body. I remember when I was younger and still in school marvelling over the fact that one of the girls in my class had a whole room all to herself, and yet, here I am.

I think about Peeta as I look at myself, think about his touch all over my body. I am a lot more filled out than I was several weeks ago, and I think my breasts have grown a bit as well. Has Peeta noticed, I wonder? Did he find me pleasing even when I was limp and thin and battered? Or has his indulgence in me only been the work of pretty dresses and a plumper chest?

After all, Peeta is certainly handsome. Well defined and strong-jawed, benefited by all the luxuries a wealthy childhood gives. Even ignoring his wealth and charm, he exceeds me in every way. He likes to save things, though, and that's what I had been to him, no different than the broken pigeons and half-disfigured cats that Prim used to bring home.

Sharing his bed hadn't been awful, though, or as painful as I had expected. I might even say I had enjoyed it, being so close to him, letting him touch me. And even if people gossiped, it wasn't like the reputation of an orphaned factory girl was worth much. Besides, I had made Peeta feel happy—and didn't that make everything worth it? For once I had given him something of value, made up for all the saving he had done with kisses and touches and mutual pleasure.

A shiver goes through me as I think back on the way it had felt as he had rested above me. I end up having _thoughts_ about him all morning, things that no woman ought to think on a Sunday. Even as I'm hooking on the buttons of my shoes, braced against the tiny wall that that separates us, my mind flies back to all those kisses and the way it felt to hold his jaw in my hands and know that he was completely and utterly mine. My body clenches at the memory, and I almost do something stupid like run back to his room and take him up on his earlier offer to join him in bed. Eventually, I resort to biting my nails and waiting for the girl to come and bring me downstairs.

* * *

It's Rue who brings me downstairs, a stray curl of black hair bouncing from underneath her white cap as she excitedly recounts the sunrise service she attended in Harlem with an older serving girl.

I don't see anybody but the staff as I walk through the house. It seems that everybody else has left before me. My assumption is proved correct as I step outside and stare out at the already lined up horses.

Past the cobblestone and mill of people is Peeta's distinctive carriage. I recognize it immediately; even amongst the other expensive carriages Peeta's looks shinier and newer. By the time I see blonde hair peeking through the glass, I'm already bounding across the sidewalk, waving goodbye to Rue before snapping open the carriage door and falling into the plush seat.

The moment my eyes catch his I know I'm a goner. There's something about the way the sunlight highlights his jawline through the window and the way his mouth parts as he begins to speak that makes me lunge across the carriage, catching his lips in mine before I even have the chance to think.

He's hesitant at first, his lips slack with shock. But then he catches on, giving into the moment and diving full in. Our bodies touch as much as the formal clothing allows, his hands digging into my hair as I stop his words with my mouth. We move together almost forcefully, desperate and pulsing for something more,for that thing we felt last night. I think about it for a second: taking him here and now. But then, just as I am digging my silkbound knee into his lap the door handle rattles and we crash apart.

At the jolt of the door handle, I fling back into my seat, a flustered look on my face as I attempt to tuck my hair back into my hat.

"I swear," the exasperated voice and bounce of blonde curls tells me everything I know, "this city is just getting dirtier and dirtier."

"Glimmer!" Peeta greets the girl with wide eyes and a questioning smile. "What are you doing here? I thought you were riding with Effie."

Glimmer flashes Peeta a smile, plopping down in the seat beside him with a little sigh. The skirts of her emerald green suit brush against his leg as the carriage starts. The dress is hardly scandalous, but the triangular collar and tight sleeves seem more fitted for a party than church. My mother certainly wouldn't have allowed me to enter a religious building looking like that.

"Their carriage was full," she says, pouting in his direction. "Besides, you make better company than Effie."

"Well," Peeta smiles back at her, "you are always welcome to join us."

"Us?" Glimmer raises an eyebrow, feigning confusion before going, "Oh, _Katniss_," and examining me as if she didn't realize I was there. I quickly wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, desperate to cover up whatever nonexistent evidence there is of Peeta's and my kiss. "I didn't know you...attended church."

"I'm not a heathen," I retort, scowling.

My response must be a little too defensive, however, because she glows at my words, a sly smile lighting up her face. "Oh," she says, waving her hand away, "I never meant to insinuate that. I understand you had...difficult circumstances growing up. I actually think it is wonderful that Peeta's bringing you to church. He is a great man and I am sure he is a great _father _figure to you and your sister as well."

Peeta nearly chokes at that, his eyes bulging wide at the word 'father.' We exchange a little look of amusement and horror, and I blush at the thought of what we did last night. Whatever Peeta is to me—friend, host, perhaps even guardian,—he most certainly is not my father.

It's Peeta who manages to cover up the moment's awkwardness, regaining the conversation with a question about the health of one of the Glimmer's relatives. I'm thankful, then, as they chat on about mutual friends, that it is I who filled Peeta's bed last night, I who shared touches and kisses and so much more with him.

* * *

Glimmer's babbling and doting on Peeta creates the perfect barrier between us, though Peeta sneaks glances at me the whole ride there. Little half smiles and gentle looks that seem to make it past Glimmer's radar. He seems desperate to touch me, his hands bracing my waist, as we step out of the carriage and in front of the church.

"You look so beautiful," he whispers against my shoulders as he helps me onto the pavement.

I readjust the collar of my dress, blushing at his words. All around me people seem to buzz with laughter and pointed looks; it's as if I fear somebody, everybody, is going to know what I did last night. As if they will look at me and know I am no longer a virgin, pure and white and innocent.

But as I take in the grandeur of the parishioners gathered around the entrance to the grand, old building I'm thankful once again for Peeta's generosity. My dress, a yellow printed silk with black trimmings and brocade, looks perfectly at home among the outlandish displays of the wealthy churchgoers. The collar of the dress is a crisp lace that matches by the edged sleeves. Around my waist is a black silk band with matching silk flowers and dark shiny embellishments that must be pearls. The hat, a satin-covered straw thing with yellow and blue flowers, pins uncomfortably into my hair.

Back home, my mother had a good Sunday hat like this one. It wasn't so new or fine, but it was covered in a faded blue satin and had two green ribbons that ran like streamers across the sides. She had always worn the thing on holidays or when we went to church. Prim and I had simple straw hats back then, ones with black cotton bands wrapped around them that we wore on Sundays and to school events. I think I sold mine for bread some months ago.

"Oh, Peeta," Glimmer says, waving across at somebody across the street, "I think I spot my cousin Clove over there with the Vanderbilt girls. I really ought to say hello, excuse me," she nods, giving him her sweetest smile as she turns away.

And then suddenly Peeta and I are alone. Well, as alone as one can be in New York, anyways. But without Glimmer nearby, I feel it again, the urge to just pull at his collar and press my lips against his. It's only the swarm of churchgoers and onlookers that dissuades me. I care little for my own reputation right now, but I hardly want to scandalize Peeta on account of my impulsiveness.

"Maybe we should head on inside," he says finally, squinting upward at the bright sky. "I think it is getting late."

"Okay," I say, biting my lip and trying hard not to look at him. I follow him across the street, careful not to let my skirts touch the city grime. With his lips and body so close to mine, I barely notice the people waving at Peeta or saying good morning to us; instead I savor the way he presses against me as we shuffle through the tightly-packed crowd.

It's only the magnificence of the church and threat of damnation that sobers me. The high ceilings of the godly building are crowded with arches and carvings that no doubt cost a small fortune. It's a pretty sight, no doubt. In the center, right in front of the pulpit, is a towering window of colorful stained glass, but that reminds me more of a prostitute's dress than anything religious.

I cling onto Peeta's arm as we make our way through the crush of people, hesitant to separate myself from him in this uncomfortable, unfamiliar place. But before Peeta can lead us to our seats in the second row, a man steps away from one of the chatting groups and blocks our way.

"Peeta, my boy, it has been ages since I last saw you. How _are_ you doing?" asks the paunchy man. "And who is this fine young lady you have with you?"

"I am doing well, sir." Peeta smiles at the man before turning to me. "Mayor Plutarch Heavensbee, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Ms. Katniss Everdeen," he says, shaking the man's hand.

The need for introduction is wasted on my part. It's hard not to recognize the man; I imagine every able-bodied man and woman in the city knows who he is. Plutarch Heavensbee, the media lord turned politician. Once known only for his newspapers and advertising companies, he had run for Mayor of New York a few years ago and won in a landslide victory. Now he reigned in every parade, his face covering all the morning papers.

Mayor Heavensbee smiles at me. "Why," he says, eyeing me thoughtfully, "aren't you a treasure. The pleasure is all mine, dear. You will be at Finnick and Annie's wedding, I presume?"

I nod wordlessly.

"Well, I will have to talk to both of you then," he says as the melodic chime of the organ starts to play. "Better get back to your seats."

Peeta gives a nodding smile of dismissal before hurriedly guiding me to the pew where Glimmer, Effie, and Finnick are already sitting.

The stony organ music bellows through the crowded hall, echoing through the room with a sound like commendation. The church is nothing like the Catholic one I once attended with my father. There are no sayings to memorize and a minimal grasp of ceremony. The hymns aren't terribly difficult to sing along with either, though the pastor, a middle-aged, questionably sober, man who looks more bored than anybody else, drones on a bit.

Somewhere around a discussion on good works, Peeta's hand slips between the gap of our bodies and reaches for my hand. Our fingers brush together against the cold wooden pews, but his touch does nothing but remind me of everything we did last night. I freeze for a moment, throwing his hand off of mine. I feel like a _whore in church_ in the most literal sense.

He looks down at our hands, a pinched, almost hurt expression on his face before he resumes looking forward.

* * *

The ride back to the house is filled, yet again, with Glimmer's mindless droning on about various social clubs and events. It's clear that I don't fit in the conversation, that I know nothing about the people they are friends with or the upcoming weddings, dinners, and balls that they find so fascinating. I wonder if he'll marry her long after I'm gone. Not her specifically, but a woman like her, poised and pretty and knowledgeable on the subjects a wife of his ought to be.

As we step inside of the foyer I notice instantly that the dead quiet place I left this morning is now abuzz with life. The staff has come back from church, it seems, and in the meantime have swarmed half the first floor with flowers, fresh and silk and clay alike.

And, amongst all of those flowers is a woman who I can only assume to be one of the wedding guests. She's pretty, with wide-set brown eyes and hair that falls to her breasts, but not in the demure way that Glimmer is. No, this woman practically exudes spirit, from from her low, lacy neckline to the jaunty way that she walks toward us.

"Peeta!" the woman practically shouts, smiling brightly as she wraps her arms around him. Brushing her fingers against a curl of his hair she beams, "I see you took my advice and got rid of that _ridiculous _moppy haircut."

Peeta swallows, turning to look at me as Johanna frees him from the hug. "Katniss, this is—"

"Johanna," she says glumly, not bothering to offer me her hand to shake. Brushing past me she practically stomps towards Finnick, and then, with a lascivious wag of the tongue says, "Finnie, you look like a god. That Annie is a _very_ luck woman."

Finnick laughs in response, embracing her in a tight hug before taking a moment to look at her. "Jo," he says, "you're here!"

The woman smiles, leaning backward against the wall as she recounts her most recent adventure. "Well, I ended up stuck in Boston with my absolutely horrid twit of a husband. But yes, I'm here. Wouldn't miss the scandal of the year for nothing."

From the corner of my eye I see Effie huff. "_Katniss," _she says very pointedly, "why don't you head upstairs and work on a letter for your sister."

_Prim. _In the afterglow I've nearly forgotten about the half-dead sister I have lying upstairs. Nonetheless, I'm annoyed at Effie's attempt to remove me from the conversation.

"Fine," I say, a little aggravated, "I'll go."

* * *

I trudge upstairs to my room, closing the door behind myself and flinging my body across the bed. My corset is hurting already, so after flinging my shoes across the room I pull off my outer dress and attempt to take it off. Unfortunately, the thing isn't quite as easy to take off as it is to put on, and I only get halfway through the laces before giving up.

I must lie on my bed half dressed for twenty, thirty minutes before I hear a gentle knock on my door.

"Hey," Peeta says, holding up a white paper bag. "Brought you something."

Closing the door behind him, Peeta walks over to the bed and sits down beside me. "Here," he says, handing the bag to me. "I snuck it from the kitchen, figured you might be hungry."

Curious, I stick my hand inside. It's a scone, light and fluffy and filled with a sweet cream that melts on my tongue.

"Good?" he asks, as I take my finishing bite. "They aren't serving lunch for some while, and we're all eating in our rooms, so I thought to might want something."

"Thank you," I sigh, biting my lip. He looks nice in this light, soft and understated. "Can you help me?" I ask, gesturing to my half opened corset. "With the laces."

His eyes wander down to my half-dressed state. "Oh," he says, "uh, sure," he pushes my hair back, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he pulls gently at the ties.

"So," I ask, "what was Effie in a tizzy about?"

"Oh nothing," he shrugs, "she scolded me for inviting Johanna to the wedding."

"Why would Effie care about that?" I ask, but I already know the answer. It's clear, whatever Johanna is, she's not the epitome of propriety.

"Well," Peeta says, pausing, "Johanna has a reputation, you might say."

"A reputation?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Well," Peeta says, "she didn't make her money by the most reputable of means."

"She's a…" I drift off.

Peeta chuckles. "Try not to look so scandalized when you see her again."

"And you...fraternize...with a prostitute?"

He shrugs. "She isn't a prostitute anymore—married one of her clients, a Blight something or another. Besides, it isn't like she was ever a common street whore. More a professional mistress than a prostitute, and by all means integrated into society."

"Oh," I say, holding back my words. I'm hardly one to judge respectability, but I can't help but wonder _exactly how well_ Peeta knows Johanna.

"There," Peeta's hands wrap around my waist as he pulls the corset through and tosses it on the bed, "all done."

I turn to face him as his hand settles under my breast. "Stay," I plead, perhaps a little too desperately, my mouth hovering against his.

"I'm sorry," he says, pressing a kiss against the tip of my nose, "as much as I would love to spend the day in bed with you, I have a prior obligation."

* * *

Lunch still hasn't arrived by one. I almost get annoyed before remembering what it was like back home, how long I have gone without food before.

But when the door opens and the girl dressed in black finally arrives, rather than bounding to accept the food I freeze in surprise. I know this girl, with her tell-tale dingy black hair and Seam-worn face. She worked with me in the factory back home and grew up in the building across from me. Hell, our mothers were even friendly in the old days.

"Leevy!" I exclaim, my eyes widening at the familiar girl. "What are _you_ doing here?"

The girl's brows pinch together. "Katniss," she falters a little, her face turning red as she sets down the flower adorned tray, "I'd ask the same of you, but everyone already knows that story."

So they have been talking about me back in the Seam. Gossip traveled fast, especially among the factory girls. Long hours and repetitive tasks made empty talk and idle chatter seem inviting, even to me. Depending on who was overseeing the shift, past the hum drum of the factory things were either dead silent or filled with singing and gossip.

"What story?" I ask, then shake my head. "Never mind, how did you get here? The factory—did you get fired?"

She shakes her head. "Your...Mr. Mellark had bread sent down the the factory where we work and the cook hired me to work on weekends. I usually just do scullery work, but it's Sunday and half the kitchen is at noon service or working on that wedding."

The girl in front of me seems so flat and lifeless. Barely living has that affect on people, I suppose. After all, I'm no stranger to those half-dead eyes. Haven't I spent most of the past five or six years looking like that? Mostly gone and vacant. I wonder if that's why Peeta took so much pity on me, if he saw the same thing I see in Leevy now those months ago.

"Peet—Mr. Mellark had bread sent to the factory?" I raise an eyebrow at her. It's a kind gesture, but not one that surprises me. It's just like Peeta to think of something like that, to care for the people in my life, even if I wouldn't necessarily do the same.

"Yeah," she says dismissively, "not long after the holidays he sent food out to all of the girls in the factory. Paid a doctor to come see the children."

My heart swells with pride at Peeta's actions, at his goodness. "Oh," I smile at her as I accept the food, "that's, that's nice."

"You did a good thing for your family, Katniss," she says, a sad smile on her freckled face as she turns the doorknob, "no matter what anyone says."

* * *

_A good thing for my family._ The words don't shock me, I know how it must look from her end. After all, she'd do the same. Most girls would sleep with far less appeasing men than Peeta for far less coin.

That would have been my fate, undoubtedly, had it not been for Peeta. Had it not been for the bread he had given me when I was younger, or the bread that had came long after that. Better to share the bed of a man who cared for me, who touched me tenderly, who would never lay a hand on me, than a man like Cray. That's how I had justified my actions, wasn't it? Told myself that I was lying underneath him for his pleasure rather than my own.

But it had been a lie. I didn't sleep with Peeta because of debts or pennies or perfumes. I slept with Peeta because I wanted to, and allowed myself to justify my actions on account of all that he had done for me. Being drawn to Peeta had nothing to with expensive shoes, or even the things he did for Prim, but with the way his eyes looked when he smiled and the way my heart pulled tight when I rest my head against his shoulder.

I shake my head. There is no place in my life for Peeta, not when I have to write a letter to my dying sister, not when I barely have a footing on life. So I start my letter to Prim instead. I must go through at least four sheets of paper. Wasteful, certainly, but I can't think of what to write. All that's on my mind when I look back on this time is Peeta, Peeta, Peeta. And what do I say about that? _Oh, Prim, I had soup for lunch and by the way I also slept with Mr. Mellark?_

After writing a handful of painfully fake stories about what I have been doing these past weeks, aside from dealing with Peeta and Gale, I settle on telling her about the wedding. Finnick and Annie's love story, minus the pregnancy, makes for a tale I know my sister will enjoy. And as I think of the smile that will be on her face as she reads it, the words just flow. I fill up two whole sheets with details about flowers and ribbons and the sorts of things Prim appreciates.

When I'm done I'm so proud of myself that I _have _to show Peeta. He would like it, I think, to see what I've written for Prim. At least, that's what I tell myself my intentions are. So I crack the door open, checking for servants or passersby as I always do. And that's when I see him. When my heart drops to the floor.

Not twenty feet away from me, no other than Peeta Mellark, the same Peeta Mellark that shared my bed last night, that came apart on top of me, _is slipping into Glimmer Carnegie's room._

* * *

**Author's Note: Sorry for the length of this filler chapter, lol. What did you think of the introduction of characters like Plutarch and Johanna? Let me know in the comment section below. **

**For the record, Peeta isn't sleeping with Glimmer. But that doesn't stop Katniss's mind from wandering in that direction. You'll have to wait and see to find out what's up with Glimmer.**

**All Was Golden in the Sky was nominated for a Fanatic Fanfics Award! You can vote on their website**** under the hunger games section! **

**As always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety. Make sure to check out my weheartit for this story:)**


	15. Champagne

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything but my original content. All names, characters, and places belong to their respective owners. Big thanks to my beta, Court, for the editing:)**

* * *

_Not twenty feet away from me, no other than Peeta Mellark, the same Peeta Mellark that shared my bed last night, that came apart on top of me, is slipping into Glimmer Carnegie's room._

The door closes behind them, but I barely register the sound. I shouldn't care, but I do, because somewhere inside of me some part of my being yearns for Peeta Mellark. Some part of me wants more than his bed or his friendship. _Some part of me feels that thing for him that I shouldn't. _

It's a dangerous thought, wanting him in that way. Because I can't have him, no matter how much I may _feel that way _about him, it will never matter. I will never be his wife.

I slip back to my room, my heart slowly sinking into my chest. I had been stupid. I had let my guard down, let myself grow attached to a boy I have no business loving. And now I am bearing the consequences. I feel used and dirty, like a cheap rag thrown away after the first use. I never expected anything from Peeta, but I just figured...at least, I never thought he would discard of me so quickly.

If nothing else, it's a reality check. I have no place in Peeta's life. I can't even keep him in my bed, for that matter. At least now _I know_.

* * *

I sleep through dinner and breakfast. It's already noon when the serving girl, the redhead that usually tends to me, arrives.

The dress she puts me in is a mix of two fabrics. One is a pale blue silk, and the other a matching blue cotton thickly embroidered with cream flowers. The cream embroidery pulls upward to the edge of the collar, where there is a thin lining of lace. The most interesting part about the dress, however, is the puff of white fur that lines the top of the dress and the back of the train.

I barely have time to breathe, much less think about the implications of last night, before I'm being shoved downstairs. I'm not even halfway down the main staircase before I hear it, the tinkering of glasses and clatter of idle chatter. In my absence it seems that most of the guests have arrived. Half of the first floor is already flooded with an assortment of well dressed society people in suits and evening dresses.

"Katniss!" a cheery voice greets me as I step down into the main hall. It's Peeta, dressed in a fine black suit and carrying a top hat in his hand.

I freeze as his hand brushes against my waist. "You slept awfully late," he says, teasing me. "Did it by any chance have to do with my keeping you up the other night?" He laughs, his breath hot against my ear. "If so, I wholeheartedly apologize and promise to do it again."

I swallow, shrugging him off and casting my gaze to the floor. "_Don't,_ Peeta," I say with a pointed scowl.

"What?" he asks, frowning. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he comes to personal realization and adds, "Oh, too many people around. Right."

I let him get away with that explanation. It is hardly the time or the place to confront him about Glimmer. If I ever confront him, that is. How am I supposed to bring up that I _saw him _with her? Better yet, how am I supposed to admit that I care?

I'm thankful, then, when one of the waiters carrying a tray of alcohol passes by and Peeta grabs two glasses. Handing me one, he asks, "Here, want a drink?"

I accept it greedily, snatching the glass quickly from his fingers and downing the alcohol. It's not like the stuff we drank that night in his office, nor like the wine at dinner, but rather fizzy and bubbly and light on the tongue. Champagne, I think they call it.

"Woah," Peeta laughs, eyeing me dubiously, "might want to slow down there."

I scowl at him once more, snatching his own drink from his hand and taking a pointed sip before turning it back to him. He must find this amusing, because it takes everything in him to try to conceal his grin.

I shouldn't find him attractive now. Not when I know that he's done, when he's still tainted with Glimmer's touch. But I do. It's rather hard not to when he's so well dressed and I know what he looks like naked.

"How long until the ceremony?" I ask flatly, pushing down the blush that's starting to spread across my face.

He flips open his golden pocket watch and checks the time. "Thirty minutes or so," he answers. "Perhaps we should head out and get our seats."

* * *

The wedding is set up in the main hallway. Rows upon rows of matching mahogany chairs line the space on either side. Lush displays of evergreens, whole trees brought in for the affair, are decorated with flowers and scented ornaments. Large arrangements of dangling blue flowers are fixed to the ceiling. In the front, near the altar, they almost touch the floor. The room looks more like a forest than anything else, the display even more enchanting than the grand marble flooring and excess of electric chandeliers.

In the back of my mind I make note of the details for Prim. My sister would love to be here, would love to see all of this splendor. She had always been a fan of weddings, even the simple affairs held in the Seam.

"Prim would love this," I tell Peeta absentmindedly as we take seats in the second row. It's the place where the family of the groom is supposed to sit, _ought to sit_, but I suppose Peeta is Finnick's family, in one way or another.

Prim is a safe topic of conversation. Whatever Peeta may have to done to me, I know he cares genuinely for my sister, as most people who meet her do.

He gives me a soft smile, folding his hands across his lap as he settles into his chair. "Well then," he says, "if, _when_, she gets better I will make sure to drown the house in flowers."

I sigh. "I don't think it's the flowers so much as it is the idea of a wedding. Prim's a terrible romantic."

Peeta raises an eyebrow. "Enjoying weddings makes you a terrible romantic? I have to assume, then, that you're not one for the affairs? Figures."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

He backpedals. "I didn't mean anything by it. It's just, I know you don't think too highly of marriage...or love, for that matter."

"Why should I?" I ask him. He's not exactly wrong, but I can't help feel annoyed by his assumption of my opinion. Who is he to look down on my lack of romantic sentiments when he was going to another woman's bed after waking up beside me? "It's not like I am ever getting married...or falling in love," I add, matching his tone, "_for that matter._"

His eyes flit downward towards my lap as he answers me. "Perhaps you shouldn't speak in absolutes. You're young one day things will change, maybe one day you will look in someone's eyes and all of these reservations you have will fall away."

I scoff at him. "Life doesn't work out that way for me, Peeta."

From then on Peeta makes idle conversation, as he always does, but I keep my responses to a minimum, avoiding him whenever I can. I'm relieved as the room slowly fills up with people, relieved that the welcoming of guests keeps him from bothering with me.

I'm introduced to an assortment of high society members. Carnegies, Rockefellers, Vanderbilts…the type of people who, prior to this, I only knew from newspapers and factory gossip. It seems that news of my staying with Peeta has spread around. When I walk back from the bathroom I catch at least one woman scowling at me, and half a dozen others whispering as I sit down beside Peeta.

When I get back to my seat I notice that Peeta is already conversing with another guest, an older man with fine white hair and sickeningly strong perfume.

"Katniss," Peeta says, no hint of smile on his lips as he introduces me. "This is Senator Snow."

"Coriolanus," the man says with a nod. "You're a sight for sore eyes, Ms. Everdeen. The spitting image of your mother," he adds, eyeing me up and down, "aside from the _coloring_, of course."

I swallow hard as I make the connection. _Senator_ Snow owns half the factories in the city. Duly hated in the Seam, he's known for his low wages, long hours, and hazardous working conditions. Not long ago sixteen girls in a waistshirt factory burned to death on account of his policies.

But I don't remember his name because of any reputation he has, I remember his name because my own father died in one of his factories...And apparently _he_ knew my mother.

"Thank you," I reply dryly, fighting back the hard lump that is forming in my throat. Snow only nods, tipping his hat as the organ starts up. "Better get back to my seat," he says, smiling brightly. "It was nice seeing you, Ms. Everdeen. _Pity_ about your mother."

The man's words crawl down my skin, leaving me unnerved even after he's left. It takes Peeta shaking my shoulder twice to remind me to stand up as the bride walks down the aisle.

Annie shines as she makes her way down the silk-covered path. Her dress, a cream gown of cascading silk that falls around her, is covered in the most delicate floral arrangement of crystals and pearls. It's one of Cinna's designs, and truly spectacular at that. Her veil, a thin netting that ties up into a headpiece of shells and pearls, I assume to be a tribute to her father's occupation.

Finnick's bright green eyes light up when he spots his bride, a smile erupting on his face as the pastor, the same man from yesterday, starts the ceremony. As Annie takes place beside Finnick I take more notice of her. She's a pretty brunette with doe eyes and a slight Irish accent. The pair seem to be complete opposites. While Finnick stands firm, confidently reciting his part of the vows, Annie stutters a little, clearly out of her element. Nonetheless, however different they may be, you can tell just looking at them that they love each other. Pregnancy or not, there is no doubt in my mind that they would wed eventually.

When Finnick finally unveils Annie, and pulls her into a borderline inappropriate kiss, I can't help but think about my own wedding. Can't help but think about what it would be like to have somebody look at _me_ like that, kiss _me_ in that way. But I know love like that is dangerous. Haven't I seen it with my own parents?

* * *

After Annie and Finnick are married off, we are all ushered into the other side of the main floor, where grandly dressed tables and an endless amount of food have been set up. Already, half of the guests seem to be drunk, the men filling up on scotch and the ladies sipping at champagne as a fat woman dressed in a garish blue dress bellows foreign music throughout the room.

I'm seated beside Peeta at a table not far from the bride and groom. Much to my dismay, it ends up being just the of us after Glimmer leaves to be with her cousin and Effie starts fretting over the ice displays.

"Would you like me to get you something?" Peeta asks once we're alone, nodding towards a long table overflowing with all sorts of fruits and scones and cakes.

I shake my head only partly out of rejection of Peeta. Despite not eating anything today, I can't seem to muster up hunger, even though I'm surrounded by more food than I have seen in my entire life. Instead of thinking about almond cake or Annie's dress, my mind is stuck on the memories surrounding my father's death. I recall the way we danced in front of the stove the night before the accident, the ghostly pale color of my mother's face as she heard the news. I even remember the taste of raisin nut bread, the feel of rainy mud against my legs as I raced home to Prim with our salvation tucked under my arm.

Peeta frowns at my response, but doesn't bother me any more about eating. He does, however, push me when Annie goes up to the front of the room and announces the bouquet toss.

"Go!" he says, smiling as he urges me on. "Come on, you'll have fun. Unless," he wriggles his eyebrows, "you're already secretly married."

I roll my eyes at him, annoyed at the attention he is bringing to us. Sighing, I eventually give in to his teasing and make my way to the front of the room with as little a show as possible.

I know the tradition well. They have something similar in the Seam, but there the women only toss single flowers, a gesture of matrimonial luck to whoever catches them. Supposedly the woman who receives the flower, or bouquet in this case, is supposed to be the next to marry.

Not being desperate for attention or an engagement, I stray towards the side of the gathering. Imagine my surprise, then, when the gathering of white roses lands in my hands.

My mouth goes slack in shock, and before anybody can say anything I push the bouquet to the giddy blonde woman beside me and dart back to my seat with an apologetic look.

Peeta laughs as I collapse against the chair. Taking an obnoxiously large bite of some type of cream-filled dessert, he smiles.

"_Don't,_" I say, narrowing at him. I can already imagine at least half a dozen teasing remarks coming from his mouth.

He only grins wider. "Who knows," he says, cocking his head to the side, "maybe marriage is in the cards for me as well."

My heart drops at the implication of his words. He wouldn't do that, would he? Marry a girl so soon after he has slept with another?

I flee before he has the opportunity to elaborate. Turning around sharply, I run smack dab into a pink-dressed woman carrying a glass of champagne. The drink spills onto the top of my chest, and I stop for a moment, letting out out a frustrated sigh before giving a curt apology. "I'm sorry," I say, "I-I have to go."

I race through the crowd, not bothering to retain any semblance of propriety as I dart through the array of guests and servants towards the powder room.

As soon as I reach the entrance, I fling myself inside and collapse against the door, thankful to be alone. It's a pretty, peaceful room, with warm golden lighting and cream damask wallpaper. A perfectly good place to hide out for a while.

Eventually I get up and go to the sinks along the wall, hoping to get the champagne out of my dress before it stains. Unbuttoning the top half of my dress, I wet a towel in a vain attempt to get the sticky drink out of my corset.

And then the door swings open with a loud, ear-piercing creak that sends shivers down my spine. It's Johanna, looking pretty as ever, and dressed in a pale green gown with embroidered branches that practically climb up the silk.

"Well," she laughs, glancing downward at my mostly bare chest, "I can't say I know what Peeta sees in you."

"I'm sorry?" I ask, scowling at the knowing arrogance in her tone.

"You know, you really don't have to worry about Glimmer. She's no real competition, just an extension of his awful mommy issues. Not that I'm one to judge anybody's issues…Besides, he only keeps her around out of sympathy."

"Sympathy?" Why on earth would Peeta feel sorry for Glimmer? I certainly feel no sympathy towards the pretty blonde Carnegie girl. As far as the pity card went, I didn't expect to have much competition there. Not that I want Peeta to feel sorry for me, of course.

"You know—" she starts, then curiously adds, "oh, you don't." Shaking her head she adds, "Look, brainless. He's wealthy, handsome—you know you can't do any better. Hell, most women can't."

"What are you talking about?" I narrow my eyes at her.

"Listen, I find you a little hard to swallow, but I care about Peeta, and quite frankly I'm getting tired of watching the two of you mope around," she rolls her eyes. "Finnick's right. Peeta does look at you like you hung the sun and moon."

I bite back my reply. Because if Peeta really looked at me like I 'hung the sun and moon' he wouldn't be ending up in other women's beds.

Johanna just shakes her head and presses the towel to her face. "Don't hurt him anymore than you have to," she says as she closes the door behind her.

I huff as she leaves. The idea of _me_ being able to hurt _him_ is preposterous. Whatever fondness Peeta may have towards me, when it comes down to it I am nothing more than the little girl he took into his home. Kissing him hadn't changed that, sleeping with him hadn't changed that…

I suddenly feel stuffy, confined by the palace of my hideaway. There's something about the room's opulence, about the way the gold framed mirror reflects against the chandelier that makes me want to scream. _All of this is Peeta_. And a Seam girl like me has no place in this grandness or in this dress. I should be where Leevy is: locked up downstairs in the scullery. That's what Peeta should have done with me when I had stolen those shoes: sentenced me to work in the kitchen rather than pamper me like a prized pet.

I think about making a run for it as I exit into the hallway and take a look at the back door. Peeta's men are far too preoccupied with the party's hustle and bustle to notice me leaving. I could be in the park before anybody would notice. Or better yet, I could go to the river and take a moment to think.

But I can't run. Not in a dress as outlandish as this one, not when Peeta would have a search party out for me the second he noticed me missing. So instead, I settle on meandering through the mostly unused back hall of the first floor, eventually settling on a deserted, dusty hallway to settle down in.

It's just as I'm slumping down against the wall that I hear-and feel-the crack of my shoe's heel, and the subsequent twisting of my leg.

I don't even bother to test how much I can move it. It's too much. The thought of Peeta marrying Glimmer of all people...the pain radiating from my ankle. I'm about to give into the tears when I hear something.

"_Katniss?"_ It's Peeta, a concerned look on his face as he peers into the little hallway and takes me in. I must be an unpleasant sight, curled up on the dusty floor with my hair mussed and my dress torn. "Are you alright? I've been looking all over for you."

"Go away."

He doesn't listen, instead slumping down beside me. Frowning, he sniffs at me. "You're drunk," he says accusingly.

"I'm not drunk," I spit out. "I spilled some champagne on my dress."

He snorts. "That's the line you're going with? Come on," he says, extending a hand to me, "I'll bring you upstairs, get you cleaned up."He looks down at me, his waiting eyes blinking with confusion when I slap his hand away.

"Leave," I insist, wincing slightly. I scoff at him in an attempt to conceal my injury. "I'm fine."

He lets out a heavy, almost annoyed sigh, the type one would direct at a disobedient child. "You're hurt, aren't you?"

"No," I lie, my voice hot with anger, "I told you I'm fine. _Just go away_."

"Is there a reason, then?" he asks, leaning down beside me, his voice laced with the slightest bit of anger.

"For what?" I ask begrudgingly, not wanting to meet his eyes.

"For you hiding, holing up alone in this hallway. If nothing's wrong with you," he swallows, "then come back to the wedding. Dance with me."

I scoff at the incredulity of his proposition. "I'm not dancing with _you_."

"Fine, then," he says, standing back up and taking a moment to look down at me, "but come back out."

I make an attempt to stand, gritting my teeth and bracing myself against the wall, but I fail miserably, collapsing back down before I make it a couple of feet.

"Aha!" he says, entirely too full of himself. "You _are_ hurt."

"It's just my ankle," I spit, biting down in pain, "and it's only swollen."

Peeta chuckles at that, looking at me in a way that can only be described as condescendingly endearing. "Here," he says, tucking his arms underneath me in an attempt to lift me up. "I'll help you up and then I can go grab some ice for that foot."

I flinch, drawing back immediately. "Don't touch me."

"Katniss."

"Don't touch me," I beg. "Please." I can't stand it. The thought of his hands on me when I know that they were on her not too long ago. When I've touched him and felt him and let him inside of me.

He raises his hands and backs up a little. Then, sighing, he asks, "I didn't push you into anything, did I?"

I frown. "No, why?"

"You have that look in your eyes. Like I hit you. And I know I didn't force myself on you, so if I didn't push you into anything, what is it?" He frowns, a desperate edge to his voice as he adds, "Tell me what I did, tell me so I can fix it. Fix us."

_"I saw you go into Glimmer's room,"_ I confess, biting back tears. Swallowing the lump in the back of my throat I add, this time with more resolve, "And as soon as Prim's better, I'm done. With you, with _everything_."

"Wait," he sighs, wrinkling his forehead, "you think I what, slept with Glimmer? _That's_ why you're so mad at me?"

"I'm not mad," I let out, perhaps a little too defensively. "Look, I never expected anything from you, but I-I just didn't think you would…" I hold back the tears starting to slip out, "And then there was Johanna and all these women. I'm not stupid, Peeta, I know I'm one of many, I just..."

"Katniss," he almost laughs, "I absolutely did not sleep with Glimmer. And if it matters, I have never in my life slept with Johanna."

"Then why did you go into her room yesterday? You expect me to believe that your intentions were pure?" I bite my lip. "I'm not a fool, Peeta. I'm not going to just pretend like you, like you didn't..."

"Yesterday?" he raises his eyes in surprise, then sighs. "Katniss, yesterday had nothing to do with that. He looks at me, his voice lowering, "If I tell you this, you have to swear on your life to never repeat it. Okay?"

I nod, biting back the insult that rests on the tip of my tongue and sighing back against the wall.

Even in the relative privacy of the hallway he leans in towards me. "Glimmer had a baby some time ago," he lets out. "A little girl."

My heart stops, my ears barely believing the words. "You have a child with her?"

He frowns, shaking his head. "Oh no, it's not...the child isn't mine."

"Then what," I shake my head, too confused to be relieved, "why were you…"

"Come to my office," he sighs, standing up and reaching for my hand, "I'll tell you everything."

* * *

**Author's Note: Yay! Let me know what you thought in the comments below! Looking forward to seeing more of Snow? Hoping to find out what's up with Glimmer?**

**As always, you can find me on tumblr at starveinsafety and everlarkfanfictionclub. I have a weheartit for this fic (link here) with all my aesthetic goals for this fic. I'd suggest you check that out:)**


	16. Secrets

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything in the Hunger Games series. All names, characters, and places belong to their respective owners. I only retain the rights to my original content and property. So don't sue me, blah, blah, blah.

* * *

My body drags against Peeta's as we make our way down the hall. Our hips are pressed together, my stumbling footsteps matched by his even ones. My ankle hurts worse than I expected it to; even with Peeta's arm around me I'm having trouble making it to the room. When we finally arrive, however, I'm quick to release him, opting to cling to furniture rather than rely on his steady embrace.

"You sure you got it?" he asks me as he closes the door behind us.

I nod in response, hobbling towards a chair by the desk, with gritted teeth and a forced smile of assurance. It takes me a moment afterwards to breathe, to let the fire in my ankle subside.

"If your sobriety wasn't already in question, I'd offer you a drink."

I blink up at him. He's leaning against the edge of the heavy, mahogany desk, his coattails flapping against the corner, top hat discarded by a collection of papers and books that I'm certain are terribly important, yet nonetheless bear no meaning to me.

"Well…?" I start, chewing on the bottom of my lip as I wait for him, wait for his explanation— for the words that are going to make me feel alright again.

I try not to think about my sister when he offers me a caramel candy.

"You're going to have to see a doctor about that foot," he says, taking a good look at me as I turn down the sweet. "Looks like a bit more than a sprain to me."

"And you're a doctor?" I raise an eyebrow at him. "Peeta, just spit it out." I lean back in my chair, letting out an overly extended sigh for dramatic purposes. "You brought me here, so what is it?"

"Fine," he says, his jaw tightening. "Glimmer came to me the other day." He sighs as he unwraps the bright foil of a chocolate and pops it into his mouth. "She told me that she needed my help, that she wanted me to find out where her daughter was. _That's_ why I was in her room."

_She wanted me to find out where her daughter was._ I frown at that. The child must have been adopted out secretly. It wasn't uncommon for those type of arrangements to be made when it came to upper-class families. Swallowing hard, I raise my shoulders in a question. "Oh, really?" I eye the room around us. "And you _came to her room_? How convenient. Was your office an unsatisfactory accommodation?"

He shrugs. "You're the one who protested when I made the same accusation about you and Gale spending so much time upstairs. Tell me, were _you_ sleeping with him?"

I scowl at that and he lets out a breathy laugh. "Thought so."

Peeta's hands press into the sides of the table, his legs casually braced against the bottom of my chair. "I was Glimmer's de facto advocate during the whole ordeal," he pauses, taking a moment to encapture my reaction to his explanation. "The baby's father was an older man, a politician with no interest in ruining his reputation over such a thing. He told her to get rid of it, and when she didn't he made arrangements with her parents. The family was in something of a financial crisis at the time, and more than willing to play into the father's demands. They..." he swallows, "they tried to force her to go to see an abortionist."

I wrinkle my forehead. "But she had the baby?"

He nods slowly. "She ran away, showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night, soaking wet and begging me to help her. So of course I did what I could. Took her in, played go between with her parents." His teeth clench in anger. "I think they believed they were doing right by her or the family or something."

_Took her in._ I swallow at that. I try to imagine Glimmer Carnegie, who looks down on practically everyone, coming to Peeta for help. They must have been close, then. Or maybe not. He'd done something similar for me, after all. Perhaps, then, Glimmer and I aren't so different. Despite our varying circumstances, neither of us have any true agency in this world. We're not Peeta, who can more or less do as he pleases. I wonder for a moment if there are other Glimmers out there. Girls he's saved, girls he's bedded. But I don't ask. It seems particularly shallow in the moment, so instead, I just go, "_Oh,"_ and bristle internally.

"You know," he admits, glowering at something in the distance, "they actually tried to push the baby on me. Tried to threaten me into marrying her. I suppose it seemed like a golden opportunity. They'd take care of their problem, all while getting Glimmer hitched to a Mellark. I didn't stand for it, of course, and eventually they got the picture, worked something out, made the right arrangements. Before I knew it, the whole scandal was being covered up and Glimmer was leaving for the countryside. I was surprised that she decided to come for the wedding. She's been away from New York for so long…"

I try to imagine what it would be like if somebody took Prim from me. When I was younger, I always worried that we'd get sent to an orphanage and separated, that I wouldn't know where she was or what was happening to her. My heart tightens at the thought, but I suppose babies might be a different circumstance. "You said you met her because she wanted to know," I falter, "know how her baby is doing? She doesn't know, then, where the child is?"

He shakes his head. "Her family made the adoption arrangements. I wasn't privy to the details, I suppose they wanted to prevent this very thing, wanted to keep the transition as discreet as possible. That was the deal."

"And now she wants you to break that?"

He lets out a heavy, audible sigh, and runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah," he rolls his tongue across his lips, "she wants to know how her daughter is faring. I think on some level she needs to make sure the child is okay before she can move on with her life. Marvel Vanderbilt offered her his hand a couple of weeks ago. I think she's considering the offer."

I scoff. If _she _told Peeta that, it was only to make him jealous. "She wants you," I tell him plainly.

He frowns as he reaches down to take another chocolate. "Her family wants my family. It's a merely transactional affection these days."

I don't buy that. Peeta's attractive, more so than most men, and he's kind too. Women aren't fawning after him merely on the basis of financials. "And," my voice shakes a little, "do you want her? Transactionally or otherwise?"

The corners of his mouth turn up in a half smile. "No," he says, "I don't want her, Katniss. You should know that by now."

"Hmm," I wrinkle my forehead, staring intently at the globe directly behind him. "Did you love her, though?" I ask, my voice lower this time. "Before, I mean."

He leans into the desk, taking a moment to respond. "I thought I did at the time." He looks down at me. "Now...now I don't know."

My forehead wrinkles at that. "You don't know? How, how can you not know?"

"Well," he pauses, "I think sometimes it's easy to work yourself into believing you love somebody." Peeta's eyes flit towards me, his gaze narrowing."You didn't really think I would do that to you, right? Sleep with her, I mean."

I laugh softly. "What reason do I have to think you wouldn't? She's pretty and willing and you've been with her before."

"What reason?" He lets out a scoffing breath, running his hands through his hair and taking a moment to pace around the front of his desk. "What reason? Katniss, good God, have I really given you that impression of myself? Do you mean to tell me that you honestly believe I would bed another woman with the scent of you still on my skin? Give me a little more credit than that. It was your first time, Katniss, and even if it wasn't I would never sully what we did by taking up with somebody else so quickly."

I let out a short breath, frowning in an attempt to cover up the little flutter my heart feels at his words. "You have no obligations towards me."

His eyes flash in my direction, an almost incredulous look on his face. Huffing in disbelief, he raises his arms in protest and takes a long hard look at me. "_You came to my bed_, Katniss. We made love."

"So?" I raise an eyebrow.

His eyes widen pointedly and he lets out of an incredulous huff. "_So,_ we were together, Katniss. There was an implication there, in that night. Or at least I hope there was. Do you mean to tell me you came to my bed with hopes of a cheap screw and nothing more?"

I stare at him. _What did I want that night?_ I barely knew myself, so instead of making any attempt to explain, I shrug. "I don't want anything from you."

"Oh, right. And _that's_ why you're so jealous of Glimmer?" His accusation breaks through the thin veil of our conversation, shattering my attempt at placating him.

I glance downward. "We should head back to the party." I swallow, avoiding his question.

Peeta rolls his eyes, but goes to stand up nonetheless. "Fine, Katniss," he says, his voice cracking, "if that's how you want to play this, go ahead."

I watch him silently as he picks up his top hat and strolls across the room. He hasn't even bothered to escort me out. I think somehow he's forgotten about my ankle in his anger.

"When I came to you, Peeta, I mean, I never expected anything...I just, I didn't think you'd…"

He stops, hand on the doorknob. His blue eyes stare at me, waiting. "Didn't think I'd what?"

I take a moment to stare at him. He looks almost fragile before me, even with the hardened lock of his jaw, and for some reason that makes me want to kiss him. _Kiss him. _I've thought about doing that an awful lot lately. I've thought about more than than that too, about wanting him, loving him, in a way that I have no right to. Because, no matter how much I attempt to push it away, I want him to do more than kiss me or bed me..._I want him to love me._ But of course, I can't tell him this, so instead I shake my head and try to formulate a response that feels safe. "I did want something that night, Peeta. _I wanted you._"

His lips are on mine before I have a chance to breathe. And then he's there, everywhere, his hands brushing against my waist, his tongue caressing my lower lip. His hands glide underneath me, lifting me up and pulling me on top of the desk. My back hits the end as he leans into me, our bodies extending over a pile of books as hands dig into clothes and hair comes undone.

"I don't want you to ever think," he pauses, pulling up to breathe, "that I don't care for you, or that I only want you for _this_. But I wanted you too, Katniss. Oh god, I've wanted you for so long."

I sigh a little and he dives back in again, his body pressing against mine with a near greedy passion. His fingers pull at the buttons along my neck, tugging wildly. I hear one fall to the ground as he slips a hand underneath the fabric, prying at the edges of my corset with little care for the garment's survival. I feel desperate underneath him, like if I stop touching him I won't be able to breathe.

He doesn't push for anything more than a hand on my breast, just kisses me until I feel near lifeless below him. I want more, want to be with him again, but I'm not sure how to ask, so instead I press upward and reach for the top button of his trousers.

His hands stop me, his fingers stilling mine. "They'll miss me if I'm gone too long…" he says, and I can feel him sigh against my skin as he rests his head on my chest, "and I'm afraid if we go any further there won't be any stopping."

Peeta lies half on top of me now, my body sprawled underneath him. The desk, I realize, has been mostly cleared in the frenzy, the discarded remains of books and pens and papers tossed on the floor as our bodies covered the mahogany surface. It's a rather large piece of furniture, but my feet still dangle off the end, my toes curling up once more when Peeta sighs against me. "I meant what I said earlier," his thumb presses gently against my chin, "that I care for you."

I run my fingers through his golden curls. "Hmm…"

"You and Prim are my family. And you'll still be my family when these six months are over..."

I let out a breath of disappointment at his words. _You and Prim. _I don't know why I expect anything more from him, why some part of me hopes he'd relate to me in the way I don't dare wish for, but I still feel somewhat stung by his words. It's a perfectly sweet sentiment, of course. I know I should feel warm at his inclusion of me in something so dear. He cares for me, for Prim. I know that much by now, and it's not that my ears don't go a little red at the thought of being his _family_, but I just can't help but hope for something more than being lumped in with my sister.

I'm still a little downcast at his comment when I remember Peeta playing with Prim, the way she latched onto him from the moment he took us in. How, even now, he's done everything in his power to ensure her comfort and well being. He's done what I've always wished I could have done for her. He's treated her like _family_. Whatever his motives in that were, whatever we've done together in bed, Peeta's never let Prim down, he's never faltered for a moment in caring for her...or me, I suppose.

"You'll stay here, right?" Peeta turns to face me, resting his chin against the edge of my collar. "When the six months are over, I mean."

I shrug against him. "Maybe," I mutter noncommittally, my fingers stroking the velvet trim of his jacket. An image of that Christmas floats into my head, and I try to cling to the look on my sister's face, the delight in her eyes as Peeta unwrapped one surprise after another.

He opens his mouth to reply, but before he gets the chance to respond there's a heavy knocking on the door.

"Wait there," Peeta says, sliding down the desk with a groan. "It's probably Effie hoping to lure me into a round of introductions." He cocks his head in my direction. "Better button your dress back up."

From the desk I watch Peeta slip the door open a crack, effectively shielding me from view. I can't see the visitor, but I can hear Peeta, and even at the name my heart feels like it's going to crack.

"Oh, Dr. Beetee," Peeta opens the door a little wider. Even from here I can tell he's tensing. "Is something wrong?"

Dr. Beetee eyes me with only the slightest hint of curiosity. "It's about Prim, sir. Her fever broke."

* * *

Before any other words can be exchanged, I'm buttoning up the rest of my dress and bounding across the room, injured ankle or no.

_Prim might be alright._ I try not to get ahead myself, try not to imagine all those promised trips to Coney Island and rides in automobiles. Try not to imagine Peeta and Prim laughing like a matched set, try not to imagine the three of us going to ice cream stores and strolling around Central Park, being a _family_. But that part of me that wants—needs—a glimmer of hope betrays my better judgment, and before I can stop myself I'm thinking of my sister's smiling face against the amusement park advertisements that line the upper streets of Manhattan. _Prim might be alright! _

Peeta's arm is braced against the doorway, and I lean against it, using him for support. "Her fever broke?" I ask, echoing the doctor's words as I rest my head over Peeta's forearm and try to ignore the look he's giving my damaged foot.

Dr. Beetee nods in response. "Your sister has been in a delirious fever for the past couple days. Delirious fever is a symptom, not uncommon to typhoid patients, of course, but your sister was burning rather hot and there was a cause for concern. Luckily, the nurse has alerted me that the fever has been out for several hours now."

I stare at him. "That's good, right? Really good."

"I prefer to avoid making presumptive guesses when it comes to these types of things, but in my experience with the disease, yes. This does seem to be a turn for the better. In a few days, given further monitoring, I will have a better understanding of how I should alter her treatment plan." He frowns at me. "By the way, I couldn't help but notice that you have a limp. I don't recall you being so disposed prior to today," he rubs his glasses and takes another look at me, "though I tend to be forgetful. You don't have a chronic limp, do you?"

I'm too consumed with thoughts of Prim to process his question, so when it takes me a moment to respond, Peeta steps in. "No, sir. The injury occurred during the reception."

"Ah! I thought so. If you don't mind, might I take a look at that foot? You know," he scolds, "you really shouldn't be walking on such an injury."

Peeta looks at me pointedly and I roll my eyes. I'm too gleeful to bother objecting when Peeta accepts his offer, hauling me into a nearby chair and levying my leg on a small coffee table. I almost raise my voice in protest when Dr. Beetee's cold hands press uncomfortably into my ankle, but before I know it he's pulling away and giving his assessment.

"Well," he says, peering down at me from those oddly round glasses, "it looks to be nothing more than a sprain, but you seem to have exacerbated it. For the time being I'm going to recommend you lie down and keep it elevated."

"Lie down?" I ask. Even from Peeta's office I can hear the faint murmuring of the crowd mingling outside, and with the news about my sister and reconciliation with Peeta, I'm far more inclined towards rejoining the activity.

He nods. "You don't _have_ to stay away from the festivities, though it really would be better if you laid down as soon as possible. If you are keen on the wedding, however, I'm sure a chair could be set up or…"

Before I have the chance to respond, Peeta shakes his head. "No, I'll bring her up to bed. Thank you, Doctor."

Dr. Beetee gives a curt nod in response, tipping his hat goodbye and disappearing into the hubbub of the hallway without another word.

As soon as Dr. Beetee's gone, Peeta's eyes dart over to me, his voice raising quickly, as if he knows I'll protest. "Katniss," he says with a light-hearted sigh, "you really ought to head upstairs and give that foot a rest. I'm not going to force you to go back up, but the wedding's nearly over and besides, I hardly imagine you want to be limping when you finally get to see Prim."

I scowl a little at his shameless manipulation, but give in anyways. My ankle's already throbbing, and the last thing I want to do is draw attention by having to be carried into the ballroom. "Fine," I sigh reluctantly, "I'll go with you.

At that, Peeta's mouth breaks into a wide grin. With no prior warning he throws me into the air, his hands reaching underneath my body and hoisting me into his arms. I laugh in response, whining in playful protest as he sneaks us through the hallway and up the main staircase. As we make our way to the bedrooms, my arms wrap around his neck, and before I know it I'm nipping at the skin underneath his jaw.

"Stop it," he whispers with mocking sincerity as I press a kiss to his Adam's apple, "stop it or else I'm going to have to throw you on that bed and have my recompense, which I doubt is included in any doctor's definition of rest."

Even though I blush at his words, I find myself emboldened by his admittance and nip once more at the edge of his jaw, barely even noticing when he props open the door to my room. He sighs as he rests me on the bed, his blue eyes wild as he places pillows under my foot. "You're beautiful," he lets out, brushing a soft kiss against my forehead.

When he starts to pull away I reach for his arm, latching onto the sleeve of his jacket.

"Stay with me?" I ask, my voice cracking with a sliver of hope.

He smiles faintly, pushing a stray blonde curl under his ear before sliding in beside me. "_Always."_

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay, I was away on vacation and it took me a while to get back to wifi/civilization. A million, million thanks to my beta, Court, for helping me out with the emotional context and tone of this chapter. She was a big part, as always, in determining the flow of the story.

As always, you can find me on tumblr at starveinsafety, everlarkfanfictionclub, and girlonfirerecs. If would like, you can check out my inspiration board for this story over at my weheartit (which is linked on my profile).

For those of you who are wondering, in this fic Katniss is 17 going on 18 and Peeta is 20/21. Let me know what you thought of this chapter in the comment section below!


	17. Dandelions

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Hunger Games universe. I only own my original content/creation. All names, places, and characters belong to their respective owners.**

* * *

I wake to Peeta's voice and the wafting smell of fresh bread. As I pry my eyes open I catch a glimpse of him bursting through the door, a tray in his hands. He's changed into a more casual outfit, I notice, brown trousers and a grey dress shirt.

"Morning, Katniss," he says as he sits at the foot of the bed, his voice laced with something akin to a tinker, "I brought you breakfast. It's rather light, though, and if you'd prefer to have something else—"

"It's fine, Peeta," I cut him off, eagerly taking a bite of the fruit filled croissant he offers me. "I must have fallen asleep…" I trail off with a pointed glance at the dress I never bothered to remove.

He smiles at that, leaning into the comforter and unashamedly snatching a slice of my orange. "Indeed, you practically passed out the moment I wrapped my arms around you. It was all very sweet," he says a bit too haughtily, "we ought to share a bed more often."

I scoff at him. "Must have been the champagne."

"Or the kissing," he offers with a grin. When I roll my eyes at him he winks, pressing a kiss to my stocking covered ankle. "You know, speaking of champagne, I hear you spilled a glass on Edith Roosevelt."

"Ugh," I groan into my palm, "I'd completely forgotten about that. _Edith Roosevelt,_ really?"

He nods. "The one and only."

I wrinkle my nose at that and he laughs in response. "You should probably get out of those clothes," he says, gesturing towards my slept in dress.

I raise an eyebrow at him.

"I didn't mean it like that," he says with a small smile and slight roll of the eyes. "Come on," he pulls gently on my hand, "I'll draw a bath for you."

* * *

Peeta's bathroom is somewhat more ornate than the other ones I've been in. Larger, too. At least twice as big with walls painted a bright clean white and a big window that allows light to filter across the open space. A chandelier, not unlike the ones on the main floor, hangs from the ceiling's center, its crystal spirals dipping at least two feet into the room. There are two large counters on either side of the door with sinks dressed in the same blue and white porcelain as the bathtub.

Peeta leaves me on the counter's edge as he fills the bath with water. Even in such an extravagant room he looks almost normal hunched over that tub, as if he could very well be the serving boy rather than the master.

"Beetee's with Prim," Peeta mentions as he runs his hands through the mostly filled bath. "Came this morning to check up on her."

"Oh?" I ask, my voice squeaking ever so slightly as I try to contain the hope that fills me.

"Yeah." He turns toward me. "You alright?"

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be? She's...she's doing better." I look at him for confirmation, "_Right,_ Peeta?"

He nods, reaching over and squeezing my hand. "I'm supposed to meet with him in a few minutes. I hope you don't mind…"

"No," I say, leaning my head against the counter's gilded mirror, "go."

"You sure?" he asks, eyeing my leg with due suspicion.

"I'll be fine, Peeta." I square my jaw at him. "It's _just_ an ankle."

He nods half-acceptingly at that, running his hands one last time through the water before pulling me upward and placing me on the stool beside the bath. His wet hands leave damp fingerprints on the underside of my cotton shift, little marks of his touch that linger even after he's taken one last look at me and closed the door behind him.

* * *

As the water pools around me I'm reminded of the first bath I took in this house, of the baths in between and everything that's happened since that Christmas night. I lie there for a while, my head resting just barely under the water as I watch a series of birds through the thin silk curtains.

It's in annoyance at my blocked view that I finally leave the bath. I'm cautious as I stand, moving my foot back and forth to test my limits before finally letting go of the tub and moving across the room. My ankle feels considerably better, though there's an evident limp to my gait and I find myself leaning against the wall more often than not.

I pull back the curtains quickly, allowing the unfiltered light to stream through the room in a bright gust of sunshine. It takes a while, but with enough tinkering I'm able to pry open the window and pull it upward. It's as I'm admiring the city sounds and fresh air that I hear the door fly open.

I turn around quickly at the noise, relaxing only when I find Peeta in the doorway. His blonde hair is now pulled back a little more respectably, and he's wearing a suit jacket, but he stills looks remarkably mundane, all things considered.

When Peeta spots me, however, his eyes flash open and then he quickly turns away. "Oh, uh, here," he mumbles as he tosses me a pale blue smoking jacket that's hanging off the back of the door.

I let out a short laugh. "You're acting like you've never seen me naked before," I say as I clutch the fabric to my chest. I'm surprised, given recent events, that he's suddenly concerned with my decency.

"Well, I haven't. Not, uh, not like this. It was rather dark and well…" He swallows. "Are you sure you don't want to put something on?"

"No, Peeta," I say with a roll of my eyes, even though I'm more than thankful for the blue silk wrapped around me, "I _don't_ want to put something on. Tell me about Prim." I let out a breath. "_Please?_"

He softens at that, leaning into the edge of the counter with a sigh. "Beetee said with the right medications and, ah...it's highly unlikely she will suffer any permanent damage."

My eyes light up immediately. _Prim's going to be alright. _It's a mantra I repeat in my head as the blissful shock falls over me. "Really?" I look up at Peeta, almost scared to ask.

"Really, Katniss. We'll talk about this later," he swallows. "I'll go, let you...carry on."

"No," I say in sudden desperation, my voice laced with the slightest crack, "_stay._"

The smoking jacket falls into a silky pile on the cold marble floor.

I don't think I have ever seen Peeta's eyes as wide as in the moment my hand slips. "Katniss," he says, and it's rough and low and warning. "Are you really certain this…?"

I shut him up with my lips. He's almost careful at first, his hands resting tenderly around the back of my waist, but then, as I knot my fingers in his hair, he seems to grow braver.

Perhaps I should feel nervous wrapped around him like this. Exposed, at least. Maybe I would have a few days ago, but here I only seem to mold around him, completely unaware of anything peripheral.

_I love you,_ I want to say as I close the gap between us once more.

The kiss is not slow or caring or particularly loving, just desperate and full of that hunger I've never quite been able to understand. In the second that I press myself against him, bare as the day I was born, I don't really _love _Peeta Mellark, I just want him.

My back hits the edge of the counter as he presses further against me. Peeta seems to notice my discomfort, because when I lean into him he picks me up for the second time that day, reaching under my legs and pushing me up against the sink. My legs wrap around his waist as we kiss, my core pressing against the clothed, but hardly concealed, evidence of his arousal.

It's not long before I'm reaching for his belt buckle.

"_I need you,_" I admit as I tug at his undergarments. I feel something akin to anticipation bubbling in my chest and suddenly I have the urge to kiss him again.

"Ugh," he throws his head back in agitation, sighing slightly. "I don't have anything," he confesses, running a hand through his hair. "I think...downstairs...I can," he struggles to speak as I press gentle kisses to his neck.

"You can just pull out, right?" I bite my lip and look up at him.

He blinks at me. "I mean, I suppose...Are you sure you want to trust me with that? I'd never want you to feel like we have to—"

He cuts off when I bite lightly into his shoulder, drawing kisses up and down the side of his chest. "I _need_ you, Peeta," I repeat against his skin.

I let out a slight gasp when he slides into me. Peeta's takes my hair in his fist, holding my head so it doesn't hit the wall as he moves inside of me. I notice the slickness of it first, the unmistakable feel of skin on skin. Then there's the warmth, more evident without any kind of barrier. There's still a dull ache to everything, but it's far less painful than the first time, more immediately pleasurable, though I'm not sure if that's due to my no longer being a virgin or the lack of protection. It's Peeta, however, that registers most different in my mind. It's as if he's an entirely different person, rougher in a way he's never really been with me. Everything about the way we move together seems to be faster, harder. There's a certain lack of tenderness to the way his hips slam heavily against mine, something that excites me more than I expect it to.

We don't really talk at first. Aside from the occasional murmuring of my name, the only sounds exchanged are wordless. It's when I pull at the remainder of his shirt buttons that he speaks up. His fingers stop me first, one hand wrapping around my wrists and placing them back on the counter. "Don't think," he says as he rests a hand on my breast, "just close your eyes and feel for a moment."

I submit, closing my eyes and allowing him to hold my body tighter against his. I try to focus on the way he feels inside me but all my brain keeps coming back to is how it would feel if I just reached up and kissed him. Before I've even had the chance to weigh the merits of my actions I wrap my hands around his neck and pull him toward me, closing the gap between us with no inhibitions. He exactly doesn't protest my interference this time, but he lifts me up, my legs still wrapped around his, and braces me against the nearby door.

I want to tell him that I love him as I come apart against him. I want to tell him that I'd marry him, even though I think the entire concept is mostly senseless. I want to tell him that I'd do everything I said I never would if he'd only give me the chance. But I know better than to admit such foolish thoughts, and not long after I shudder beneath his touch he's pulling out of me and the moment's over as soon as it came.

Later on we sit in the tub for what feels like hours, our bodies looped together in quiet reverie as the water goes from hot to lukewarm to cold. Peeta's lips press gentle kisses against my neck the entire time, his hands wrapping idly around my waist as I rest above him.

"You're really beautiful, you know?"

The words barely register. "Uh, huh," I say as I lean lower against him.

I rest my head in the crook of his neck as he speaks. "I noticed it a while ago. Before last fall, even. I suppose, all things considered, I should have made myself known to you sooner. _Perhaps Prim would be better off if I did._ At the time it felt wholly inappropriate and the last thing I wanted to do…" He drifts off for a moment. "After all, you're younger than me and I had no right to impose myself on your life. I guess I just wish...I just wish I could have spent the past year here with you."

"You noticed me?" My head jolts upward and I turn to look at him for a fraction of a second. "Before last fall?" I swallow.

"Of course," he says, frowning as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

I don't respond to that, but my heart warms at the idea of it all. I'm not sure if he's telling the truth or if he's merely embellishing for my benefit, but the thought of him wanting me for so long is strangely endearing.

"We should probably get out soon," Peeta sighs, pressing his lips against the top of my head.

"Yeah," I smile lazily against his chest, "we should."

* * *

Peeta does it to me again after we're both half dressed and comfortably settled into his bed. His head dips under the covers with no warning, and before I know it my stockings are torn in three places and his tie is nowhere to be found.

We're still disheveled when Lavinia knocks on the door. "Miss Katniss," she says, not daring to walk past the sitting room, "there's a Gale Hawthorne waiting downstairs for you."

I flush bright red at the realization that somebody, even Lavinia, knows what we're doing together, but I re-adjust my clothing anyways, making my way to the door with only the slightest bit of hesitation.

Peeta stares at me as I rebraid my hair and smooth out the lines in my skirt. He doesn't say anything, but I see the look on his face as I limp away and I wonder if the half-turned frown has more to do with Gale or the fact that I'm attempting to walk on my ankle. I figure it's most likely the ankle, but don't bother asking to confirm.

The pain's a little sharper later in the day, but with enough leaning I'm able to make it down the flight of stairs and into the kitchen quarters. Sae's waiting for me when I get to the hallway door. She looks at me oddly as I step in front of her, her eyes scrutinizing my puffed sleeve navy suit for at least a couple minutes before she finally speaks.

"That boy of yours," Sae says as she leans against the door frame, "he's out back at the delivery foyer flirting with one of my scullery maids. Might want to do something 'bout that."

I scoff at that. For all the fuss he gave me over Peeta, never in the years I've known him did he seem to follow his own advice. Giving Sae a curt nod, I brush past and make my way through the kitchen halls, carefully darting past the red faced cooks and bucket laden serving girls that stand in my way.

It's when I make it to the foyer's door that I freeze, my hand clamping down on the faintly rusted doorknob with a start. There's something that unnerves me about seeing Gale, I wonder for a moment if I'll look different to him if he'll somehow know that I've done everything I swore I wouldn't, if he'll be able to tell that I've…

The door pops open suddenly, but it's not my hand that finally makes the move.

"You never came to see us." It's the first words out of Gale's mouth and I already know this isn't going to be a friendly visit. "You never told me that Prim had typhoid fever. I had to find that out from Leevy of all people." Gale nods in the direction of his companion and I glower, narrowing my eyes in her direction until she quickly scurries off.

"Gale…" I trail off. I opt to lean against the back wall, making use of a tall shelf for support.

Gale's gaze doesn't gain any affection. "We didn't cease to exist when you came to live here, Katniss. Like it or not, there are people back in the Seam who care about you, who care about Prim. "

I stare at him. "I'm sorry, Gale. I just, I've been preoccupied and—"

"Yeah," he laughs coldly, "I don't doubt you've been _preoccupied_, but unless he keeps you locked up in here, you don't have much of an excuse for all of this. You could have at least sent word that you were okay."

I frown at that._ "Okay?"_

Gale shrugs a little, not quite meeting my eyes. "After the incident in my apartment we all figured he'd beaten you or whatnot," his voice cracks slightly. "I couldn't come back here, my mother said there was no sense in making _him _angry, wouldn't do you any help. Nobody really knew what happened to you until Leevy looked us up."

I soften slightly. "Peeta would _never_ touch me like that," I tell him. "I'm fine, really. Prim's fine too, or at least she will be. The doctors say she should pull through relatively unharmed."

Gale squares his shoulders. "That's good," he says, forehead narrowing, "about Prim, I mean." He lets out a long sigh and turns toward the door. "Look, I don't think either of us really want to talk and I have to make my shift, so I'm going to head out. Hopefully…" he doesn't finish his thought, just tips his head in my direction and moves his fingers around the handle.

"Wait!" I say, reaching out for him in a way that makes my ankle slightly wince.

Gale pauses for the slightest second. Turning back to look at me, he frowns. "What, Katniss?"

I stare at Gale, taking in the vague gauntness of his cheeks with hesitation. I don't have any money on me, but I do have Peeta's locket. Quickly ripping the necklace off, I slide the pendant out and tuck it into my pocket. "Here," I say, pressing the chain in Gale's palm.

He looks disgusted but he doesn't bother arguing with me. "I wish things were different," he whispers at me, his voice tight, before turning out of the room.

* * *

I spend the next couple of days cooped up in the house. Peeta, and to a lesser extent, Dr. Beetee, insist I stay off my foot as much as possible. This doesn't bother me as much as it should because there's well enough time with Peeta to make up for it. I spend every hour with him that I can, and it's not long before we're spending full days together in the library or office, or more often, his bed.

We don't talk about Gale, though Peeta does give me a funny look when I explain to him that I 'lost' my locket chain. Even so, I try to tuck some money away for next time. It's odd, even though we've slept together, even though I know he'd barely blink before giving it willingly, I still feel uncomfortable asking Peeta outright for the money.

It's not until the third night after the wedding that I finally get news about Prim. I'm still fidgeting with the eons of buttons along the front of my dress when Peeta bursts in, a collection of papers tucked securely under his arm.

"I've made arrangements!" he announces as he wraps an arm around me.

I curse under my breath as I lose my grip on one of the more difficult clasps. "What about?" I ask, though I'm not particularly interested.

He presses a quick kiss to the nape of my neck. "We're going to the Hamptons," he tells me, and I can practically feel the smile on his face, "...at the request of Dr. Beetee."

"Dr. Beetee?" I feel my heart quicken at that. "You mean….Prim?"

Peeta nods excitedly, grabbing my hands and excitedly spinning me around so I face him. "Dr. Beetee is of the belief that the fresh ocean breeze will be good for her health. As soon as she is approved for travel and removed from quarantine we will be on our way."

I smile against his collar and in that moment I feel like my heart is going to burst. "_Oh, _Peeta," I murmur into his shirt.

"I know," he says, lifting my chin upward. "It almost felt like this day would never come."

I squeeze his hand, but before he can squeeze mine back I lift up on my toes and kiss him. It's a gentle kiss, one that says 'thank you' more than anything else, but it's not long before I'm pulling at the hem of his shirt and attempting to move us onto the bed.

"You really shouldn't be standing on that ankle," Peeta interrupts between kisses, passion lulling in his concern.

"Shut up, Peeta." I roll my eyes, concealing a slight smile against his chest.

He laughs at that, and when I look up at him in confusion he only smiles. "I'm really happy, Katniss."

* * *

We don't go to sleep until the night has faded into day and Peeta's given up on trying to convince me to let him read the Russian classics out loud. We don't even sleep together, at least, not in that way. We talk about Prim instead, about where she might go to school and the general state of women's education. Peeta tells me a bit about his family, about the brother he has out in Boston and how he wants to bring me there one day. I try not to let myself think about it too much as I'm falling asleep.

By the time I wake up the sun is shining bright and Peeta's already in the sitting room, fully dressed. I trudge over to him in my nightgown and try not to think about how far we've come over the past few days when I take a seat in that chair I sat in so few weeks ago.

"When's lunch?" I ask, curling up with one of the throw blankets.

"You know," Peeta says, placing the book down on the table beside him, "I was actually thinking we might go out tonight."

"Out?" I raise an eyebrow at him in question.

"To lunch, I mean. We have a restaurant at the department store and I think it would make for a pleasant outing. Don't you?"

I shrug at first, then visibly brighten when I remember something I always wanted to do with Prim. "We should go ice skating," I tell him, pushing forward in my chair. "It's one of the last days of winter and if we're heading to the store we'll walk past the rink anyways."

Peeta scoffs, giving me a nearly incredulous look. "We are not _walking_ to the store," he says with a wrinkle of the nose, "and we most certainly are not ice skating, though that is a sight I would most love to see."

"What," I taunt him, "afraid that even out on this foot I'll still be better than you?"

He laughs, raising his hands in protest. "Oh, there is no doubt in my mind that you'll be far more graceful on those skates than I ever will, but trust me, Katniss Everdeen, I will keep you off that damned foot if it's the last thing I do."

I roll my eyes at him. "_Peeta…_" I draw his name out in a childlike whine, "Dr. Beetee said I should be okay by today. Besides, when I was thirteen I broke this ankle and I made it to work every day just fine."

His gaze shifts downward and he shifts uncomfortably in the settee. "That isn't your life any more, Katniss."

I stare back at him. "Maybe not, but my life's still mine, Peeta."

"Fine," he replies softly in resignation. "_We'll walk,_ but there will be no ice skates involved whatsoever."

* * *

We make our way to the door along the park in mostly silence. Peeta looks back at me every so often, as if he thinks my feet hitting the city street is going to cause me to spontaneously collapse. It's annoying, certainly, but that part of me that loves him finds it strangely endearing.

"Hey," Peeta says, looking back at me again as we step down from the sidewalk and onto the street. He extends his arm towards me and as I take his hand I catch sight of a sprig of wild dandelions pushing through a crack in the city's unkempt pavement.

He smiles at me when I look up at him. With his fingers still laced in mine, he crouches to the ground, plucking the dandelions and gathering them in his other hand.

When he presents them to me, a childlike look of hope on his face, I try my best to look pleased, because he can't know what they're a symbol or that they're mostly a weed. I even reach up and kiss him on the cheek, despite the fact that we're in public and any number of people could catch us.

I clutch the small bouquet to my chest as we walk along the park and try to imagine what this would be like if the two of us were married. Would he kiss me in public? Would there be a blonde haired child clutching my other hand? It's a foolish thought, but I can't say it's an unwelcome one.

I'm so absorbed in my own head that I barely notice the pushy newsstand keeper, or the way he presses a paper against Peeta's face and says, "Trust me, this is one you want to read!" It's not until Peeta lets go of my hand that I actually realize something's happened.

"Katniss?" His voice is harsh and raspy, my name cold across his lips "_What is this?_"

* * *

**Author's Note: Sorry it took me so long to get this to you! I've been swamped with school/vacation and just didn't have the time to write. **

**P.S. there are only two or three chapters left according to my outline:( The story is almost complete!**

**As always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety or everlarkfanfictionclub.**


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